Of a Devil's Heart and an Angel's Soul
by bloodstainsandbutterflies
Summary: Christine, having discovered the true form of her Angel, must begin to understand the man tethered to the voice. Angst and fluff abound with maybe some potential smut. I will try to be kind to Raoul. E/C. ALW based with some Leroux and Kay influence.
1. Chapter 1

Her fingers stung from the cold as she tore off her gloves, hastily pushing the door open to the dressing room with a shoulder. She had seen winters far harsher than this, the ones that had laced her childhood, yet a chill had seemed to seep into her bones. Shrugging off her cloak, Christine slumped rather gracelessly into her chair, only to be faced with the mirror's reflection. Dark rings coloured the skin under her azure eyes and she sighed, fingers mechanically fixing her hair for rehearsal. She glanced over Carlotta's array of lavish tools of beauty, overtly conscious of her almost sickly appearance, but decided against it; when Carlotta returned, which was a certainty, such a thing could easily spark her outstanding temper.

It had been a week, no, perhaps even ten days or so, since she had seen her Angel. Not an angel, Christine reminded herself with a shiver. The _Phantom_. A man, a strange, rage-filled man, so severed, so different to the heavenly voice that had guided her. That voice had been stern but ever gentle, so soft, so passionate, so warm that she had let herself get lost amongst it. Alas, that voice indeed was his and belonged solely to him, the man that had terrified her, that had intrigued her, threatened her, begged her.

A man with such a face…

Christine felt a wave of nausea rise in her gut at the memory flashing against her vision. Her fingers curling around the mask, a childish curiosity seizing her just as she seized that thin veil of fantasy and ripped it away from both of them. His face was frightening, with its dips and chasms, its contorted flesh and narrow scars, but it did not spur in her the same horror or blind panic as his eyes held when they met hers in that second of realisation. Burning, amber eyes, like melted gold. His shriek had been inhuman, but she could still hear the unmistakable strains of anguish and hurt piercing within her head. Any initial apology of her betrayal had been overshadowed by his unforgiving grip and horrible fury. The names spat in growls as he had flung her to the floor, her mind reeling and her body alight with the need to _run_. She had leapt to escape but he had caught her easily with his hand, a musician's hand which could produce such beautiful melodies. In that moment it became the hand of any other brute.

She shook her head slightly, blinking back to reality, urging down the images of him, palm clasped to his face, his dreaded face, reaching for her as he lay crumpled in the darkness of his home beneath the opera, promising her of things she knew he could not.

"Fear can turn to _love_…"

Crawling, begging, closer, closer, his voice tight and earnest. She did not know what to do, she did not know what to give except his mask. His haughty air had immediately returned, his dark, tall figure which had entranced her and encased every inch of her in its embrace suddenly primal and intimidating as he stood over her. And then there was simply silence.

Christine hadn't slept a full night since. Still acting as Carlotta's understudy, the fatigue had begun to worry her beyond her own health; she dreaded the day where it would doom a performance, killing her career before it had even begun. Groaning, she kneaded her eyes with the heels of her hands. Why couldn't she sleep?

_That's a stupid question Christine. You see his face every night, you hear his voice in your dreams…_

She was simply still shaken from the whole thing, she rationalised. Who wouldn't be? When an angel becomes a monster, one may need some time to process things! A part of her, that same little voice which had reminded her of the _precise _cause of her insomnia, also reminded her of the coldness of her skin and how it prickled and itched, yearning for him against every instinct and sensible thought. She began to think of the life a creature such as her poor maestro must have led with such…deformities, yet possessing such talent, wit and feeling. A gift from God marred by a jealous devil, and for some reason that thought almost drew tears from her tired eyes.

"…to find the man behind the monster, this _repulsive carcass_…" His snarl seemed to shake the core of her, still reverberating in her ears.

Her heart tightened with shame as she relayed her actions again and again, prodding at her regret and stoking her anger. The questions which had plagued her conscience reared again. Why had she done such a silly thing? Why had he lied to her so? Why couldn't things be the way they were? Why hadn't he come back to her? What would she do if he would not teach her? No other teacher, she was certain, could draw such power and grace from her throat as he had, stirring passion she did not know existed from within her being to form golden notes.

A knock at the door startled Christine back to awareness. Letting out a last whimpering exhale, she fixed a smile and rose.

_Come on Christine, you are not a child! You will push through this day, just as you have done many times now. Do not think of him!_

But it was as if he had trickled into her very being, and so the weight in her chest pressed against her heart even as she made her way to the stage.

_I will find a way to talk to him. That way, things may be mended, I will have my tutor back, and perhaps I will not have to feel this sick anymore._

…..

The lair below the opera was silent, as it had been for days. Erik was hunched over his beloved organ, willing something, some scrap of music, to burst from his fingertips. Instead, he was greeted with paralysed motionless and a disconcerting quietness. He glanced down at his pocket watch, smoothing his thin, wayward hair against his head.

_She will be rehearsing…_

Growling, he slammed his fists against the keys. It had taken every fibre of his wavering self-control to stop himself from watching her, from visiting her or attempting to throw his disembodied voice around her dressing room as he once had. Fear and disgust hummed within his head like a swarm of wasps, the white noise blocking out any melodies and even the sound of her flawless 'Hannibal' aria he had committed to memory. She had been glorious, the ways her eyes had shone, her face so bright it could have drowned the sun and her smooth tones dripping into his very soul like velvet moonbeams.

If he had a soul, if the devil had been kind enough to grant him just that.

It was then that he shared her intoxicating joy, and in his giddiness decided that to solely be a divine voice, untethered to a body, was simply not enough. He _did_ have a body, grotesque as it was, and God, how he ached for her presence, to be near and feel her gentle warmth, her softness, to be close enough to see the tremor of a blushing lip or feel the vague breath of her batted eyelashes…

And when he had engulfed her in his world, how she had _melted _against him…

But it did not matter now. He had seen her terror and now that the illusion was shattered, he knew she would not return to him. He wondered dimly if she would send the masses after him since having discovered the secret damnation of the Opera Ghost, but considering time had passed normally and he had not been ripped limb from limb, he supposed that she wouldn't.

Oh, her face…

Horror and shock corrupting her beautiful features as his fingers laced around the delicate flesh of her arm, surely leaving bruises, leaving his defilement on her skin. The image of a frightened little girl crying in the opera's lonely corridors had sparked in front of his eyes and torn at his heart and gut, but it had been shaken away. Because he had _wanted _to hurt her for what she had done because it was irreversible. He knew it although he wished desperately that he didn't. Even now he felt bile rising in his throat at the true consequence of his blind rage, sending a cold shiver down his back. How could have let himself lose control with her? Why had he let her see him? Well, now he would pay the price, refused by his angel who was his one and only blessing.

_It is better this way. You will not ruin her any further, and she can have her Vicomte…_

His jaw clenched in restrained bloodthirst. The _Vicomte, _however, he would have been happy to throw to the ground, except then perhaps he would have wrung the bastard's neck, giving himself an added pleasure by abandoning the Punjab lasso in favour of his bare hands. The pretty Vicomte with his pretty words in her dressing room…the smiles he drew out of dearest Christine made Erik's chest inflame with something desperately raw. Where was _he_ before Erik had urged her into a prima donna, when she was a fatherless child alone in the world?

_God, how much easier it would have been if she had stayed a child! I could go on fostering her skill like some decrepit false-father…but she is now not a child, she is a woman, a real, living woman crafted by Aphrodite herself… _

Erik's heart ached suddenly as a surge of desire pulsed through his veins, a strange concoction of animalistic possession and sweet tenderness at the image of her lovely face. Dazzling blue eyes, always wide to the wonder of the world and alive with such spirit, flawless porcelain skin, silken mahogany curls, a rose-pink cheek, a smirking half-smile…

"What do you think you are doing, my dear?"

Her startled gaze had shot to the ceiling, still frozen in the act of devouring a tin of Turkish delights. Swallowing convulsively, she wiped her mouth and gasped "n-nothing, ange." Erik couldn't help the grin as he watched through the mirror with scorching amber eyes.

"I thought we had agreed, my darling Christine, that sweets were only acceptable on special occasions. You do not want your teeth rotting, now do you?"

_Or for your delicious figure to spoil for that matter…_

"Meg gave them to me! It was a Christmas present, and as an angel you surely cannot be against gifts which honour the birth of our saviour!" She pouted, her voice thick and tinged with sugary sweetness, eyebrows scrunched together in innocence.

"Come come Christine, Christmas is still over a week away."

He could see her mind churning until she finally bowed her head, defeated.

"I…opened them early. It is very bad of me, I know it ange, but they did just look so _divine_ in their little decorated tin and it is wicked but, in honesty my angel,_ you_ cannot eat Turkish delights and so cannot truly understand how difficult it was to resist…" Her eyes flickered with sudden realisation at her words and her hands flew up to cover her mouth, gaping helplessly far above her.

"Are you suggesting that you succumb so easily to temptation?" Erik barely attempted to mask the smile in his tone. Christine, however, was so preoccupied with her apparent blasphemy that she missed it, falling instead to her knees in red-faced trembling shame.

"Forgive me, Angel of Music, for my rashness…" She began but Erik, in a flood of carelessness, was quick to put a stop to such masochism.

"You are forgiven, my dear. Turkish delights, after all, are many a saint's failing."

And the humoured, impish giggle she gave almost completely broke his resolve…

Damn it, the infernal girl was _his_! They were tied together by some dreamlike bond, he was sure of it. She would sing his music and cast his melodies to the heavens. If only _he_ hadn't faltered and succumbed to earthly fantasies and weakness! Besides, she needed him, despite it all. He knew that such a gift had to be nurtured, trained, perfected.

Resolute, Erik got to his feet, pacing stridently to fetch his wig and mask. His hands were already shaking but he managed to secure his cloak before checking the time again. Rehearsals were nearly over, and Christine would be returning to the dressing room soon.

_I will convince her to talk to me, and all of this beastliness will be forgotten and things will be as they were. And perhaps I will learn to be content with the part of her I do have, and not ask for more…_

Doubt was creeping into the corners of his buzzing mind even as he descended to the lake, all the while trying to ignore the swell in his heart in the hope of seeing her again.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine could barely stifle a yawn as she slipped down the hall to her dressing room, desperate to avoid a worried Meg and an ever-eerily knowing Madame Giry. The usual sideways glances she had received by the cast set her teeth on edge, and if she wasn't so anxious probably would blur her sight with tears. No, not today. There were more important things to be done.

How to find him? He was able to watch her, she knew that with a certainty. Her skin used to prickle, sensing his presence even before his voice would echo around her in all its glorious lustre. Perhaps if she simply called him from her dressing room, asking to speak with him as she used to…

"Angel? Angel are you there?" She had haphazardly brought the back of her wrist to her face to wipe her running nose, a hiccupping sob still keening in her throat.

"I am here, my dearest child." His voice was so warm, even if it was tinged with concern.

"I am afraid I will not be able to attend our lesson this afternoon. I am…I have hurt myself my Angel." Christine explained in a whimper, gesturing with a trembling hand to her ankle which she had shifted from out of the skirts of her dress.

_To think, he saw my ankle! What kind of honourable man allows that?_

"Oh Christine, what happened?" He crooned, though she could hear an edge of panic. The joint was swollen profusely underneath her stocking, the blackening easily perceptible.

"I…fell."

"My dear, you cannot lie to me."

Christine remembered her chin wobbling, and inwardly cursed her childishness. If she hadn't been so naïve…

"They tripped me, the ballet rats. Just by the stairs, and oh Angel, my foot twisted in such a horrible way! I know I am an appalling dancer, but I do not know why they hate me so! And it hurts…" The sentence trailed off with a heave of her shoulders, her face breaking into another sob.

"My dearest, you must go find Madame Giry immediately. Can you walk?" His silken voice seemed to rumble with something repressed and dangerous, making Christine wobble to standing. She supposed that even angels could get angry…

"I think I can Angel. Forgive me for missing our lesson."

"Darling Christine, the only ones who should be sorry are those _ballet_ _rats_…"

Christine felt her cheeks burn at the memory of the ballet stockings torn, the tutus slashed, the pointe shoes' ribbons tampered with so girls would collapse mid-pirouette. Back then she had thought it heavenly judgement, even though he never mentioned it. She shook her head in frustration.

_He makes me feel so stupid._

It would all be dealt with, Christine assured herself, now that all was bared. But what if he did not come to her call? Besides, what was she to call him now that he was no angel? He had entered through the mirror…perhaps there was a mechanism of sorts to open it? What then? Would she really descend into the darkness by herself? She would surely get lost in the winding passages, or stumble into a trap. What if he didn't want to see her?

Deep in thought, Christine rounded the corner only to collide with a warm chest that vibrated with a chuckle. In a daze, she gazed up only to be met with the bright, smiling face of Raoul.

"Well, the elusive Christine Daaé has finally been caught! How are you Lotte?"

Christine's head swam but she managed a smile.

"I am sorry Raoul, I did not know anyone was looking! How are you, Vicomte?" Desperately she wished to keep the conversation short. It wasn't that she was unhappy to see him, Raoul brought a ray of sunshine into her darkening existence, but today it was merely prolonging her torture.

"Well, I have been dismayed by your absence as well as your stunt pulled before supper. My goodness, I did not know you had the skill of vanishing into thin air!" His tone was forever light and playful, paralleling his nature, but she could sense the hurt.

_Poor Raoul…_

"Yes, I cannot apologise enough my dear friend. I will make up for it shortly, I promise. I am sure we can arrange a time around my rehearsals, but for now you will have to excuse me…"

She attempted to elegantly bypass his figure, but a hand encircled around her wrist. His usually cheerful eyes were disheartened.

"Why not now? I have my entire afternoon clear for the prima donna Christine Daaé." His voice curled up at the end in a hopeful jest, but he knew he had lost when she met him with a guilty sadness. He released her.

"I swear Raoul, soon. Please pardon me, I really do need some rest."

"Of course. I suppose I will wait for you another day."

She watched the slight dejection carried in his shoulders as he walked away. Sighing, Christine mustered back up her determination and hurried down the hall. Straightening her back, she opened the door.

Only to be faced by the Phantom standing awkwardly by the mirror, twirling a pocket watch over in his hands.


	3. Chapter 3

Christine froze as they regarded it each other. His face revealed nothing, even the side not shrouded by the mask, and he seemed at ease in his movement of slipping away the watch. Christine, on the other hand, felt as if she might faint.

"Christine…" he began, not quite looking at her, her name lilting down into a statement on his lips as if about to commence a thoroughly prepared speech. He couldn't manage past that, however, as a choked wail promptly burst from Christine, barely contained from behind her hands, at the sound of his voice. Boneless and unable to keep up the pretence any longer she sunk to the ground, madly trying to muffle the sobs heaving in her ribs.

She was so very tired, so very tired, and she was not strong enough to face him, to be met with the tangled emotions stabbing into her mind like thorns. It was if she had reached the precipice of some dangerous aria, teetering on the brink of the crescendo's height, and she had missed the note and came crashing down, so far down that she found herself surrounded by darkness. _His _darkness.

"Christine…" His breathy distress was thick was some sorrowful guilt as he swiftly knelt, extending a hand to grasp hers. Through her melancholy Christine felt the sharp pricks of fear, real instinctive fear thrummed on by adrenaline.

"Don't touch me!" She shrieked, her eyes hazy with tears and her throat tight as she scrambled away from him. In that moment he quickly retracted his hand, golden eyes blinking quickly, his expression still unreadable. He rose and put his back to her.

"Forgive me Christine, I have upset you. I will be leaving now." His tone was blank and Christine felt her chest release its dread. She stared at the black expanse of his back for a second more, stunned still by both him and her outburst. He seemed to pause, his masked profile half-turning to address her, but then thinking against it. The stark sound of his footsteps rattled her back to herself.

"Wait…"

Heaving herself back up, Christine didn't bother to wipe her face as she boldly considered him. He was suspended with one foot behind him, still itching to retreat away from her, but he seemed to urge it forward. His eyes met hers, and she felt goose-bumps crawl across her flesh as if suddenly caught in a blizzard.

_Be strong! You are strong!_

"I have been wishing to speak with you. I want to know if you will continue to teach me."

Something akin to surprise and confusion skittered across his features, whether it be as a reaction to her brashness or the impassivity in her tone, she did not know.

"You would like to continue our lessons?" He clarified slowly, looking like he was in a daydream.

"Yes, but I have some conditions." Christine tried her best to sound firm amongst the residue sniffles. Flustered, he revealed a handkerchief and offered it to her. Christine accepted it at arm's length, closing some of the space between them. The sharpest edge of the tension seemed to slip away, now that it seemed more of a conversation than a stand-off. Noisily she blew her nose, cheeks reddening with embarrassment at the offensive trumpeting sound. She found a tender smile curve across his mouth, or rather, the half she could see. More of the violent air melted. She couldn't seem to remove her gaze from his, mesmerised by the honey flecks suspended in his gleaming eyes.

"Your conditions, my dear." He pressed gently, but she could feel the slight tremor in his voice.

"Yes. About how things were before…"

"We will immediately return to it. I can teach you with my voice, and we may forget all of…" He seemed to want to gesture to himself but instead left the implication where it hung. Christine was only certain of one thing; that was the opposite of what she wanted.

_How could I forget that he is a man? He can never be an angel again, and we must not delude ourselves. _

"No. No, I wish to be taught by you, not your voice. My conditions are simple; you will answer all questions I have truthfully, and you will…" She desperately reached for the conviction to force the words from past her lips. Self-reproach made her tremble, and no matter how she reprimanded herself, her eyes found the floor rather than his.

"….you will forgive me for removing your mask."

…..

Erik felt caught in a daze. She was so close, she was _too close, _and he hadn't seen her in so long and he could smell the rosewater on her skin and the dampness of her tears. Her dress was modest in its cut but my God, how supple her waist looked, and the blue of the cloth matched her eyes in its brilliance. It was when hesitant fingertips brushed the top of his arm did he realise he had not answered. He couldn't help but remained fix on that delicate hand, which consequently was quickly snatched away.

"Christine, you need not…"

"But I do," her sapphire stare bore fiercely into him. "It was wrong of me to betray your trust."

"My darling Christine, you have not betrayed my trust as I have betrayed yours. I should not have lied to you about…what I was."

That seemed to spark her anger anew, reminding her of what else she wanted to say.

"You mocked my faith. I told you such…intimate things without knowing that I indeed was not in an angel's confidence." Her chin jutted up defiantly despite the vast height difference between them. "And the names you called me, and how you treated me…"

It was as if her accusations had ignited his own temper, birthed from both the ringing truth of her words, his yearning, his regret and guilt.

"Do not blame your naivety on _me_! Such blind obedience is pitiful. You could not even look when the creature revealed itself as a monster rather than an angel, despite it being your own actions which condemned you. You _chose_ to believe in a fairytale, you _chose _to remove the mask!" He spat, and suddenly the dangerous air had bubbled back in, striking lightning between them. He half expected her to cry again but instead only rage and shame had corrupted her face, creating a tremble in her lip and in the arch of her eyebrow.

_You have humiliated her even more than she has humiliated you. Are you happy now?_

She turned her back to him.

"Leave the way you came. You are right, I am far too trusting, but I have learnt my lesson now." The way she masked her searing hurt made Erik's heart sink. Why did he always hurt her?

"Christine, I-"

"You are the Phantom who haunts the opera house, not my angel," she continued. "It was good of you to remind me." The bite in her tone nearly caved in his legs. He could have crawled to her and buried his accursed face in her skirts, begging forgiveness, but it was his awareness of her distrust rather than his pride that kept him upright. He let out a deep sigh of remorse.

"Dearest Christine, I am so very sorry for all I have done. I only lied to you so as not to frighten you, and I have done that anyway. This is entirely my fault. I came to you as an angel, and then I came to you as a man and acted as a beast."

_Because you are a beast._

Silence pierced through the small room. He waited. She did not speak. Panic alighted in his blood but soon thickened into sorrow. He watched her slim, shaking shoulders, certain that she was supressing more tears. The rings under her eyes were because of him, he knew it. He had scarred her mind, perhaps even her soul.

"I understand your wishes. I will leave." He tried his best to hide the break in his voice. No sympathy should be wasted on him. His palm had just made contact with the cool, glass surface of the mirror when he heard a quiet command.

"What is your name?"

He glanced back, but she hadn't moved. He found his sight lost in her mass of glossy curls as he contemplated her question.

"Erik." It felt strange around his mouth. It had been so long since he had said it out loud.

"Erik." She repeated almost silently, but he heard her. He was suddenly dizzy, hearing those syllables he had only known as a snarl spoken with gorgeous softness. It stirred his voice back to him.

"Please, Christine. I know I am a horrid fellow, but I swear I will never harm you. My only wish is to teach you as I have done. Your voice is the only thing that matters." He urged her to know this with pleading eyes. His feelings or desires were nothing next to the responsibility of teaching her. But oh, he loathed how he had severed the easy closeness that they had shared only moments earlier! She had turned to face him but was keeping her distance now, and he could not blame her. Shifting her eyes away, her gaze followed her fingers lacing together in front of her lap. Erik couldn't stop the step he took forward, but thankfully this time she did not cower from him.

"May I see you tomorrow then? For our lesson after rehearsal?" Her words were polite but reserved. He could tell she had more questions but was simply exhausted, blinking up to fix her tired eyes on his sternum. She seemed so hollow, so unlike herself, and it made Erik ache.

_Look what you have done to bright-eyed, cheery Christine…_

"Of course, my dear."

And she watched carefully as he disappeared through the mirror.

Immediately after she gripped the chair in front of her dresser, trying to keep her balance even as her temples throbbed. It had gone worse and better than she expected, but really, what could one expect with the man called Erik? She had so much more to ask him once she had collected herself. Who was he? How did he come to terrorise the opera he lived beneath? And his face…

Despite the butterflies beating in her stomach and the unspoken questions rattling inside her mind, Christine oddly found that she slept soundly and fully that night.


	4. Chapter 4

Erik sat with a stillness resembling a corpse, carefully running his fingertips over the smoothness of the organ keys. Rationally he knew only a few minutes had passed since he had last checked the time, but the action of it all seemed to calm his nerves. He had never felt this blurred white apprehension before; it seemed so different to the animalistic suspense which caught him in the moments before a kill or after being unmasked. There was a certain clarity in his actions in those instances. Now, he felt vaguely warm but deliriously uncertain.

_5 minutes past 3 o'clock in the morning…_

Any semblance of control which he had grasped as an apparition, as a voice which could fly away if danger neared, was shattered. He knew the risk of what he had promised her, yet the full weight of such risk seemed dimmed compared to the chance of having her with him.

_Fool, it is the Vicomte who will have her!_

Yes, the Vicomte would most certainly have to go. She had conditions, why was he allowed none? After all, she was benefitting from his tutorage enormously, and it was _such _a small thing to ask from her. Although he had resisted out of shame from watching Christine, it was almost impossible to miss the moping fop hanging about the front of her dressing room day after day. He was certainly a distraction, and for a rising prima donna, such distractions were dangerous. Besides, he was a man. A young, boyish man, but a man nonetheless. Erik couldn't supress the growl from escaping his misshapen mouth. He might not have been a part of the world as the Vicomte, but Erik had seen and known enough to understand the underlying motives of men. And oh, how he knew it, as he felt the pulse of his own desire under his throat. She had awakened something he had long thought unthinkable. No, it had merely been dormant, stirred to life only by her swan-like neck, her lithe limbs and star-crested gaze.

Of course he should want her as a man wants a woman. He wanted everything from her. He wanted to reach into her breast and caress her very heart. He wanted to pull her soul from between her lips and breathe it into his chest. Oh, how easy it was to fantasise about such things without her unforgiving eyes staring into him, her sunken face reminding him of the terror he had marked her with.

_She will never want you._

Restless, he rose and stalked to his writing desk.

…..

It was the second after rehearsal had ended when Meg pulled Christine aside.

"Did you sleep better last night?" Meg queried in sincere concern, grasping her hand. Christine nodded nonchalantly, murmuring something about her bed being fixed, or her whistling window finally now replaced. She desperately wished to tell her everything, but she was very aware of the fate which would befall Erik, the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, if she let anything slip. Meg was hardly content with such an answer, but she let her go nonetheless after Christine promised to have lunch with her tomorrow.

As soon as she had exited the stage, Christine could not help picking her pace up to a slight canter. She felt her body hum with anticipation. Excitement? Anxiety? She could not tell, but her mind was clear and she felt more like herself than she had for a while. Careful to skim an eye for Raoul, she managed to spot him before barging into him as she had. She felt an immense guilt for wanting to avoid him, but she simply couldn't bear his smile and charm with her thoughts so preoccupied. Cursing inwardly, she fled around the corner, watching him pacing impatiently out the front of the dressing room. What now? She supposed she would have to simply brush him aside as she had, but part of her worried that this would not be an easy feat considering the rejection she had dealt him several times now.

_Poor Raoul, you are terrible at timing!_

Perhaps Erik could meet her elsewhere? After all, she knew he had a habit of watching over the opera house. She would have to find somewhere discreet…

"The _Opera Ghost_ requested Box Five be left empty for his use!" She had overheard a seething Monsieur André remind a scoffing Monsieur Firmin on the night of Hannibal.

Box Five! It was remote enough, and there would be no risk of anyone seeing them in the gloom of the house, even if there were a few stragglers left behind from rehearsal. Additionally, it was obviously a well-known location to the… Opera Ghost. Bidding a mental goodbye to Raoul, Christine slipped back down the hallway and headed towards the stage doors.

By the time she was in the box, the stage was dimming its lights. Covered in a shroud of darkness and feeling her frantic heartbeat in her ears, Christine, against the screams of protest from her conscience, whispered in a tremulous plea.

"Erik?"

Silence. Christine felt dread and disappointment sink into her stomach.

"Erik? Please, are you there?" Her tone was stronger, forcing her lips to push out the unfamiliar name louder.

Silence. And then…

"Christine." His chilling vibrato brought on a wave of relief within her rather than alarm. Spinning around, she found herself practically encased in his dark figure. Blushing furiously and with lingering suspicion, she took a half step away before looking up at him. His striking features from the bared half she could still make out in the shadows, his eyes glowing almost like a cat's.

_Here is a man. A strange, otherworldly man. A man with a name…_

"Hello Erik." Now that she knew it, she decided she would speak it as often as possible.

"Hello, my dear." And the hint of the smile he offered her along with the familiar warm lustre of his voice made her suddenly feel like everything could be simple…

…

She walked close to him as they descended beneath the opera house. Erik felt considerably more himself than he had the day before; the brightness had returned to her face and while she seemed careful to keep space between them, that space was filled more with awkwardness than anger. He stole a glance of her face and felt a swell in his chest; she was unafraid. Although he could feel the shake of her body so near his own, he could see her brave eyes staring forward into the darkness. Now _this _was his Christine! There was trepidation, yes, and distrust, but surely that could be mended with tine.

"It is longer than I remember." There was a forced lightness in her tone. Small talk.

"Yes, well we do not usually enter from Box Five. We are usually coming from your dressing room." He reminded her as casually as possible, trying to pretend he hadn't observed her avoidance of the Vicomte. Oh, how that had made the grotesque animal inside him sing!

"Yes well…the dressing room was…impractical."

His eyes met hers, and he knew despite her blindness he could see his gaze because she began to gnaw on her thumb; a habit he knew as a nervous tic of sorts.

"Impractical?"

"Yes, um…"

"Did this sudden impracticality coincide with the presence of a certain Vicomte, perhaps?"

She stopped abruptly, and he could see the incredulous outrage in her blazing stare and gaping mouth.

"You were watching me!"

He stopped a step in front of her, turning back nonchalantly.

"Yes." He said evenly.

Flustered and unsure of what to do now that he had commenced walking again, Christine followed quickly on his heels.

"That is unacceptable Erik! I have another condition; you must promise not to spy on me!"

"Speaking of conditions," he pivoted airily, "I have one. You must cease all contact with the Vicomte de Chagny."

He heard her gasp but she did not stop this time, struggling as she was to keep pace with him.

"You _cannot_-" She seethed but he cut her off, not even looking at her.

"I certainly can. He is a distraction, and you can afford no distractions. Today he even interfered with your lesson. You have not established yourself, and so you are on fragile ground. We must take no chances" Any chance of negotiation was notably absent in his simple but stern words. Christine's confusion and frustration and embarrassment was practically radiating from her being.

"He is a friend!"

"That is my condition Christine."

"Well you have not obeyed mine! You have not answered any of my questions!"

"You have asked none." He snarled, feeling his temper rising as his stride quickened even more so. He could hear her breath shallowing as she broke into a canter.

"Why do you live down here and terrify the opera house? Where are you from? Why is your…" She wisely left the end of the last question unsaid, but it was too late. She had lighted the fuse to his simmering rage, and in a moment he had pinned her against the wall, his hands laid flat against the stone on the either side of her head.

Christine felt her blood suspended, fixed in place by his eyes. Those burning amber eyes, hardened yet vibrating with something that stilled her heart. Golden pools that could drown her. She didn't dare breathe, and she didn't dare take her eyes off his.

"You do not know so many things Christine, and you do not want to know." His voice was low, so terrifyingly low, edged with a deep growl that sent quivers up her limbs. He was _too close_. She could smell the musk of parchment and something richly masculine, his domineering body practically entombing hers and overwhelming her senses. It was so very dark, and he was the darkness incarnate. She fought to find her own voice but could not manage to grasp it, her words coming out as shaky whispers.

"I do not know who you are Erik. You know so much about me, and to me you are practically a stranger." Silence befell them again as they stared desperately into each other. The unscathed side of Erik's face contorted into something unreadable.

"A stranger…" It was almost an exhale under his breath, but then he had moved and continued his deadly stride. Blinking rapidly as if to process what had just happened, Christine followed slowly behind him, several steps behind. They did not speak even on the boat as they entered his home, and Christine wondered, as she watched the mist curl across the water, if she was entirely safe in her maestro's hands.

…..

"Breathing! You are losing too much air at the bridge; remember, sharp and tight vocal closure with a level volume. Again!" One of his hands was slamming the melody roughly on the piano whilst the other was raised, guiding her in its sways and sudden dips, feverish and frustrated. Again, Christine felt the note teeter and die and heard his guttural sigh of annoyance. She was undoubtably out of practice, but she also felt the sting of his harsh critiques.

"I'm trying Angel!" She cried, the name slipping before she could retrieve it. It hung in the air before she could take it no longer and let out an exasperated howl.

"Erik, I am finished for today. I would like to go home now." It was said in a bite with her arms crossed. Surprisingly, he did not react, instead grazing his fingertips slowly upon the smooth tops of the piano keys in absent thought. Christine dropped her arms, considering him quietly and curiously.

"Persia."

"Pardon?"

"I have come from Persia, but I was born in France. In a little village outside of Rouen, I believe." His tone was so soft, as if he was practically talking to himself. He stroked the keys for a moment longer with a musing expression on his darkly alluring half-face, before his fingers, as if by instinct, began to play. It was a drifting piece, sweetness tinged with melancholy, and for a moment Christine felt her soul unfurl, as if it was sighing. She let her eyes close, feeling the delicacy of the song, feeling its butterfly-light kisses on her skin. Eventually it faded off into nothingness, and she watched as Erik sat with his hands in his lap for a few moments, contemplative, before he glanced to her, blinking, as if just noticing she was there.

"Would you like some tea, my dear? It would soothe your throat immensely." He asked in a caressing tone, standing and pulling down his waistcoat to smooth its creases. Christine's head spun from his sudden mood-change, the thunderclouds which suddenly evaporated into easy early-morning dew, but smiled and nodded. She was desperately trying to understand this man who she knew so well, yet knew so little of.

_It is wrong that he is so enchanting, just as it is wrong that he is so dangerous…_


	5. Chapter 5

They sat upon the plush velvet furniture in Erik's living room. Christine sipped her tea quietly, flitting her eyes up through her lashes towards his unmoving figure settled into a beautiful carved chair. It was draped with exotic fabrics, a stark contrast to the austere clothing of the man perched elegantly within it. He was lightly turning through a leather-bound book, his fingers brushing the space of chin just under his mask in thought as his agile eyes moved quickly over the pages.

_He is a very fascinating creature…_

"What type of tea is this?" Christine asked, feeling the foreign tartness and honeyed sweetness of the orange hued drink trickle down her throat.

"Limu omani. It is good for you." He explained, still reading.

"What is it made from?"

"Dried black limes. It was a favourite of the Shah's. It strengthens your heart, they say."

She did not wish to lose the small smirk which had appeared across his lips, his eyes still not looking to hers as if he was enjoying some private joke. However, her mind was buzzing with curiosity.

"When did you go to Persia?" She probed gently, avoiding the flicker of his now attentive stare by examining the rim of her china cup. She heard the breathy noise of the book being shut and put down.

"When I was young, not much older than you are now. I returned to France only a few years ago."

"Why did you return?"

She saw his fingers curl into the arm of the chair, his shoulders twitching in discomfort. She knew that he felt he was bound to her wish for an answer, but suddenly she realised she did not like this method. It felt forced and unnatural, it felt as if she was grasping his arm as he had to her. A punishment. Despite the residue of her anger and distrust, she decided not to practice such cruelty.

"Will you tell me what Persia is like?"She tried instead, her voice quiet but laced with earnestness. After all, besides her childhood in Sweden, Christine had lived a considerably sheltered life. She had only read tales of those distant lands dripping with jewels. The tension eased from Erik's body, an amused glint in his eye she had never seen. Ignoring the strange effect that glimmer seemed to have on her, she gulped down some more tea and waited for his considered reply.

"The heat slinks onto your shoulders, like some cat curled around your neck. You can feel it in your lungs. The winters are white and blazing with a wind that seems to rip skin from bone. But always, the air is filled with stirring music and peppery aromas, and you can feel an ancient heartbeat…"

He was looking softly into the breadth between them with a neutral sort of frown. Christine found her senses alight, picturing and _feeling _that unreachable place as if it was reaching to trail down her spine. He continued.

"The palace was in the centre of a humming city. A bright, vibrant city which was filled with silk-shawled women and bearded men. They would talk in that lilting tongue whose words were as soft and supple as honey, so much older than ours and hypnotic when sung in prayer. The marketplace would be alive and filled with those bustling voices as they sold their wares; the finest gold jewellery, fabrics dyed the most beautiful colours, pastel malachite and crimson like spilt blood. Old men with eyes like spirited ravens would sit in coffeehouses and argue about the affairs of the state over a game of nard…"

"What is nard?" Christine immediately blurted, practically on the edge of her seat, tea growing cold in her idle hand.

"It is like backgammon." A pause followed, but the captivation in Christine's eyes drove him on. "The palace was a grand citadel of gardens and museums and halls…it was easy to get lost amongst. Floors so polished that they shone like glass, arches and ceilings adorned with intricate patterns that seemed never to end, libraries which held all the knowledge of the ancient and modern world. The Shah sat on a throne made of marble, and he asked for a hall of mirrors so, in its thousands of reflections, he may glimpse God…"

Silence fell, and Christine gnawed her lip. She did not wish for him to stop; it was entrancing and beautiful, how he told her of such places. But his eyes were trapped somewhere, somewhere she was unsure he wanted to be. She placed down her cup and the sound made him come back to reality, sitting up in his chair before taking out his pocket watch.

"It is late, my dear. We must return." He rose and moved slowly towards her, careful to keep a respectable distance.

_Do not forget how you disgust her…_

"Will you tell me more when I come back?" She had indeed enjoyed his storytelling, but even more so she had enjoyed learning of this man called Erik. It made him become whole to her, more than an aloof ghost. Perhaps, with time, she could learn as much about him as he knew of her, perhaps his face…

His face…

Pressing down the rise of fear that accompanied that thought, Christine stood and purposefully smoothed down her dress, trying to avoid staring at that mask which hid so much.

"Of course, if that is what Christine wishes."

He could not help the thrum in his chest when she nodded with a whisper of a smile.

….

The lightness in Erik's heart sang into the night. It spurred on his hands at the organ, his eyes closed and his body swaying as he felt a wave of passion wash easily over him, silver-lined melodies caught within his veins and blooming warmth caught within his core. Despite it all, that dark voice crept into his psyche.

_She will find out what you are, what you have done, and she will run to the Vicomte, who, as she made outstandingly clear, she will not abandon…_

Erik knew that he would have his condition, one way or another. He would patiently wait for Christine to accept, otherwise a visitation of the boy by the Phantom may be required. Remembering his recently-written note, his eyes opened.

_Perhaps action may be taken tonight…_


	6. Chapter 6

"Christine, what has been happening with you? You looked like death for days, and now you seem more yourself than ever!" Meg exclaimed over their lunch at the café. Christine nibbled on her chocolate pastry and smiled to herself wryly.

_Dearest Meg, you do not know the half of it!_

"I suppose I was stressed about suddenly being an understudy to Carlotta and not a choir girl anymore. It takes time to adjust."

"Yes, I see. Well, I am just glad to have my friend back!"

Christine felt restless for the entire day, her thoughts lost amongst mirrored halls and spices, lime tea and nard. Perhaps Erik had a board and could teach her the game? With that her breath shortened lightly as his image glowed behind her eyes; the darkly handsome contours of his half-face, his commanding figure, his elegance and subdued passion, his fiery amber gaze. She had no reason to trust this man, to take lessons from him or listen to his stories, but God condemn her, she _did _trust him_. _After all, wasn't he the one who had been by her side with his voice, comforting her and guiding her? The was an obvious reason why he had not introduced himself as the man and Phantom initially; it had been proven the night she unmasked him.

_But his temper! And how he terrorises the opera house!_

Yes, that certainly would have to change if she was to learn from him, but she found herself beginning to understand his rage, assuming how he had been treated with a face such as his. She was determined to learn more about the Phantom, about why he had ended up in the dark. Her mind echoed with his past words.

"_Fear _can turn to _love_…"

What had he meant? Surely he did not mean a romantic love? No, Erik seemed too sophisticated and otherworldly for such earthly concerns (strangely, a part of her protested with an incoherent disappointment but she was quick not to dwell on it). Love between friends, perhaps. Why _couldn't _they be friends? He most definitely needed a friend, she thought, all alone as he was, and she really did find she had enjoyed his company. Could there really be any harm in befriending the Opera Ghost? She supposed she would find out.

The next day they had arranged for another lesson, and Christine found herself unabashedly excited at the prospect. Scolding herself for the rush of relief she felt upon seeing no Raoul, she was reminded of her maestro's one condition.

_Well, that is just pure nonsense! Raoul would never distract me enough to affect my singing…Erik is probably concerned that if I gain feelings for Raoul, marriage could interfere with my career. No matter, I shall assure Erik that if that was ever to happen, I would not cease my performances!_

He was already waiting within the dressing room, surrounded by that haughty air, and Christine was almost taken aback from the joy she felt seeing her tutor. A confused smile hidden by a layer of coyness slid onto his face, mirroring hers instinctively.

"Why are you smiling Christine?"

"Because I am happy to see you again Erik."

He did not quite know what to say to that.

….

"Again, Christine. You are nearly there, but be careful of holding that High C. Once more."

The gentle sternness in his dulcet voice was like her Angel's, and rather than the anguish and frustration she had felt the lesson before, she found her soul bursting, as if some violet fire was in the pit of her core and yearning to be released.

"Again."

She sang the arpeggio and felt the fire flood through her vocal chords, watching Erik's reaction of pride as she held the note effortlessly in pristine perfection until it ceased to exist. Her chest heaving, she looked at him with an enraptured, brilliant expression, a thin sheen of sweat on her porcelain skin. Erik slammed his hands upon the piano in triumph.

"Yes! My God Christine, the heavens would weep!"

Giggling like a giddy girl, Christine slumped into the loveseat she had occupied on her last visit, feeling an onslaught of pleasant exhaustion overtake her. He admired her from the piano bench, an impulse of emotion surging through him in that moment.

_Dear God how I love her…_

"I want my tea now Erik! What was it called again, limu havani?"

"_Omani _my dear. And what the prima donna Christine Daaé wants, she certainly will receive."

She couldn't help but giggle more in abandon. Only once she was settled with her teacup, an unusually amused Erik seated in his chair across from her, did she finally calm down. They relished their good moods in silence for a moment longer, before Christine could not resist.

"Erik, did the hall of mirrors in the Shah's palace get built?"

He felt a twinge of distress at her question, at the memories that came flooding back in its wake, but forced himself around them because, oh, how she was looking at him right now, like no one had ever looked at him, with such excitement and fondness.

"Yes. Pearl-lined mirrors covered every wall of that long hall, encasing the ceiling as well. Light would creep into it and become trapped forever within its reflections."

He watched her dreamy, far-off look, imagining all he described. Sipping her tea thoughtfully, she pushed for more. "Who built such a thing? Surely some mythic designer from above!"

Erik swallowed hard, masking the tremble in his fingers as he idly leafed through his book on the table next to him.

"I did." He answered shortly without looking at her. He heard her quiet gasp.

"You?"

"Yes, a mythic designer from far below, I suppose." He added with a strained dark irony. Christine searched pleadingly for his eyes, but he did not relinquish his gaze to her.

"I did not mean it like that. But my goodness Erik, you built a hall of mirrors in the palace of the Shah of Persia! The extent of your talents…"

"Do not matter with a face like mine." He answered abruptly. Silence cut seamlessly through the air; it was the first time his deformity had been mentioned since the unmasking. Christine fiddled with her cup, deciding upon what to say. She wanted him to know that his face truly did not concern her, that she did not fear it as she feared his unforgiving anger, that, perhaps, with time…

"I don't think that is true." She only managed quietly. His eyes snapped to her downcast ones, searching her for dishonesty, but the sincerity in those dazzling sapphire pools stunned him. The silence lightened slightly, making it more breathable, before Christine swiftly fixed him with a look of curious earnestness once more.

"Erik, do you have the game of nard?"

"I believe I do. Would Christine like to play it?"

With a rigorous nod that sent a bounce through her curls, Erik felt the butterflies in his chest chase away the melancholia once more.

….

"Damn it!"

"Did my ears deceive me or did my Christine just curse?"

"How did you move your checkers so many spaces?"

"I am perhaps moving more strategically than you are."

"Wait, are you, what was the term… 'bearing off' already?"

"Yes, I have reached the end my dear."

Christine yelped and grabbed the dice, desperately attempting to catch up. Erik could not help his chuckle as he easily began to finish the board route. After the game had been won, she fixed him with a glare.

"You could have gone easier on me, considering I am just learning." She huffed, leaning back into her chair and crossing her arms.

"I believe that one learns better with no special allowances given."

Christine rolled her eyes but could feel the buzz of pleasure in her mind. How bizarre, she was having _fun _with the Opera Ghost…

"Time to go home now, my dear." Erik was frowning at his pocket watch. Christine sighed, a part, that strange part of her, feeling the ebb of disappointment. She looked down at her twisting hands.

"Erik, may I ask you one more thing?"

He slipped away the watch and considered her thoughtfully. She continued. "Could you really glimpse God, standing in that hall of mirrors?"

His eyes sharpened and his body tensed; for a moment she thought he was going to fly into a fit of rage, but instead he simply let his gaze fall.

"I do not know. If He was there, He certainly would not reveal Himself to me."

….

They hovered in the arch of the mirror. The blackness seemed to swallow him, and Christine felt almost odd standing in the ordinaries of her dressing room when so much lived down there below.

"Goodbye Erik."

A hint of that half-smirk, a glimmer of luminous gold watching her.

"Goodbye Christine."

Christine felt absurdly elated, practically skipping to her door. He was on the very edges of feeling _real _to her, and how wonderful it was to feel like normality, no, a _better _normality, her Angel replaced with the man called Erik, was just within her grasp. Opening the door with lofty thoughts, Christine felt the world crash upon her as she was faced with the unsmiling Vicomte de Chagny.

"Oh! Hello Raoul."

"Hello Christine. I am in urgent need to talk to you."

"I told you Raoul, I will try to find a time…"

"I want to know who sent me this." He interrupted with an uncharacteristic gruffness, thrusting a black-fringed envelope into her hands. Flickering a confused eye up at him, she unfolded the note and read the elegant writing inked inside.

_Do not fear for Miss Daaé._

_The Angel of Music has her under his wing._

_May no attempt to see her again._


	7. Chapter 7

Erik felt odd as he sat, sprawled in his chair, staring at the remains of their game. It had all felt so very _normal_. Had he really played a board game with his angel, speaking to her as if he was a bashful lover in courtship with that delightful creature? He did not know if he felt mindlessly happy or terrified.

_How can you pretend you do not have blood, so much blood on your hands…_

His thoughts were disturbed by the soft but dutiful ring of his alarm bell. He stood with his ears pricked, searching for the faintest resemblance of human footsteps echoing through the catacombs; large enough rats could trip the alarm, after all. And yes there, the scuffle of shoes, he was sure of it, and in a second he had seized his Punjab lasso and paced towards the lake, towards the dark tunnels ahead.

Erik crept slowly through the slim, winding passage, as a predator stalks its prey. The electricity of pure instinct was searing his body and mind, the feeling of control, the base urge of a kill. It was grisly business, he mused, but every fight had been for his life. The beat of his heart, knowing that he was alive because of deaths and would continue to be with this person's death, drove him on into the shadows. He could see the faint shimmer of a dying candle around the bend, and, silently as a cat, he moved ever closer, calculating the distance between himself and the intruder's body. The candle spluttered and faded, plunging the tunnel into blackness, and in that moment he struck, lunging towards the figure to secure the lasso around the neck, until…

"Erik!"

As his sight quickly adjusted to the darkness he was so accustomed to, he saw the wide sapphire eyes frozen in horror, the cascade of gleaming curls, the delicate silhouette.

"Christine!"

Frantically tossing the rope aside, Erik rashly crushed her to him until the adrenaline left his veins, a shake overcoming his limbs in its wake. Christine did not move or say anything, merely whimpering into his chest. After minutes which felt like an eternity, Erik bent before her and boldly enclosed her face with his hands. Shock still framed her features, and he urged her to look and understand him.

"Christine, what are you doing here?" He was desperate to beat down the sparking rage that was still causing the vibrations through his body, speaking slowly and clearly. Christine's hand came to trace across the tender, smooth skin of her neck, swallowing hard. Thankfully he hadn't wrung the rope around her. What would he have done if he had marked her, if he had left red, burned stripes across her gentle, sacred throat? He repressed a violent shudder.

"Erik…" She tried but seemed to choke on her own breath. Instead, she raised her balled fist to him, releasing the crumpled note into his hand. His eyes flickered with recognition. She waited in silence, still too stunned to muster up the accusations which had been flying through her mind.

"I sent this to the Vicomte." He stated blankly. The bitterness in her stare made him continue. "Considering you did not agree to my single condition, I believed it was necessary to take precautions."

Dear God, he did not want to be having this conversation _here_, in the depths of his hellish labyrinth with her murder still flashing through his head. He could feel the bubbling anger in the pit of his stomach at her foolishness.

_She knew better than to come down here by herself…_

"You…you cannot seek to control me like this." Her voice was rough and breaking but strong with determination. Although he was sure that she could not see him apart perhaps from his glowing white mask and gaze, she was fixed on his face, those blue jewels splintering his very soul.

"You do not understand…"

"I do understand! I understand how you are concerned that my head will be turned from my career, but I am telling you Erik, even if I married Raoul…"

She could not finish that sentence, as the moment "married" and "Raoul" conjoined all Erik could see was red. The simmering rage which had been set alight by the tension of blood and kindled by her actions now burst, causing him to grasp both of her upper arms, pinning them to her sides. Surprise flushed her face, quickly chased off by fear as his grip tightened. God help her, she couldn't even see him, and it felt as if she was being attacked by the darkness and a pair of animalistic eyes…

"You _harlot_, you dare say such things to me! Oh, how you tempt me, give me your company and your voice, make me believe you may actually _care _for me, and then tell me to my grotesque face that you will wed that witless, that _brainless _fop! You know you could destroy me, but you wait, you deceive me and make me suffer until you send them all to rip me limb from limb! Why not do it yourself, Christine…"

She watched on with unbridled horror as he retrieved the lasso and strung it around his own neck, forcing the end into her hands. He then grasped her again, staring into her, shaking from his blinding anger. But beneath the burn of his eyes she could see pain, pain which mirrored hers, and she felt a sob rip through her, one that curled her shoulders and blurred her sight.

"Why do you hurt me Erik?"

Her words were choked out between tears, her pleading eyes framed by wet eyelashes. His chest was still heaving, watching as she held the rope limply in her outstretched hands, an offering she did not want, laid out across her palms. The question rang in the damp, musty air.

_Why do you hurt me…_

Erik felt his heart lurch. He had vowed never to harm her, and yet he was inflicting his own wounds upon her once again. A savage pattern of damaging her. It was nauseating, the extent of his cruelty. Oh, his poor, dear Christine…

Slowly, he pulled the lasso from his neck, dropping it to the ground. Christine was still trembling, but the tears ebbed, creating silence between them apart from their ragged breathing. Shame flared in Erik's mind until he could sense nothing else, and he felt the last of his anger melt from him like frost in springtime.

"Erik has hurt his Christine so very badly, so many times. Erik is not an angel, he is the Phantom, and he does not want to cause Christine more pain or harm…Christine must leave Erik." She had never heard his glorious voice as it was now, so quiet and ashamed. He was not looking at her, no, his eyes had closed as if he was waiting for her to vanish. Christine expected herself to feel either pity or acceptance of his request but instead she only felt frustration. Why must he ruin the both of them like this? It was not fair, and she knew from the time they had spent together that he was not simply his anger. Against all better judgement, she found the words in her mind pouring from her lips.

"I will do no such thing! You cannot abandon me to wallow in your loathing, I _need _you Erik! You teach me as no one can, and I _do _care for you, God damn you, and I wish to be your friend! But you frighten me, and you say horrible things to me when you are enraged. It was never your face that haunted me, it was your horrible fury! _You must learn to control your temper_!"

Erik found himself in awe of his furious Christine. She was denying him relief, the heartbreaking but ultimately easier route of letting her go. That way, he could be secure in the knowledge that he would no longer hurt her, that he would be punished by being banished from her life. It would kill him, of course, but then she would be perfectly safe and there would be one less demon on earth. No, his punishment now was her, knowing he could never have her and constantly yearning to protect her.

"Christine…"

"You will try Erik. Please tell me you will try, because God help me, I don't think I can stand this any longer." The tremor in her tone threatened a sob to break through, but she held it back, rubbing a hand over the sore flesh of her delicate upper arm.

"Yes, Christine. I am sorry. I will try to control my temper for you." It was curt and almost professional, which was unsettling to Christine but ultimately better than his growls and howls. Before she knew what she was doing or had the awareness to stop it, she flung her arms around the Phantom and pulled him into a hug. Against her ear she could hear the erratic beat of his heart.

_A man of flesh, a man capable of more than rage, I am sure of it! Because here is his heart like any other, and I know it carries deep feeling. _

Erik felt paralysed, surrounded by her intoxicating scent, the willowy length of her embrace so very tight. Her body was pressed to his and he could feel its delectable outline through the layers of fabric, the softness of her heaving breasts held by her corset now flush against his abdomen. Unsure of what to do, he timidly returned the embrace, and the rush he felt made him soft with tenderness as they held each other in the darkness. He couldn't help the apologies which flooded into the silence, but she simply grasped him, letting him entomb her.

_He would try for her, oh how he would desperately try for her, to beat down the beast inside…_


	8. Chapter 8

When they disentangled themselves from each other, Erik held her hand firmly with both of his.

"Let me accompany you back to your home; it is much too late for you to be walking about Paris on your own."

Nodding and hastily drying the streak of tears from her face, Christine followed his lead back the way she had come, even letting him guide her with his hand grasping hers, as he had done the night of Hannibal. Silence engulfed them, leaving them both to their racing thoughts as they ascended to her mirror.

The night was cold and Erik was without an overcoat, but it was hardly something he paid any mind to with Christine walking beside him, her nose pink from the air and her eyes catching the light from the occasional streetlamp. He was mindful to take dark side streets, aware that whilst he was confident even without his Punjab lasso, the Phantom getting caught in downtown Paris would not be the most agreeable of circumstances. From the corner of his eye he saw Christine wrap her cloak more tightly about her.

"It has been such a terrible winter."

Erik had to supress a smirk of irony; after such events, after her near-death and his ugly words and her sudden embrace, she was talking of the _weather_?

"It has been cold." He agreed politely, watching her blush as if she had realised the same absurdity. The snow crunched under their feet softly and the distant voices of those out for the night could be heard along with tolls of bells and the trot of a horse drawing a carriage.

"Do you remember when Meg and I got into a ghastly fight over something, and I told you all about it and said I couldn't be friends with her anymore?" Her tone was determined, as if she was fixated on understanding something. Erik seemed to consider the question, but he knew that he remembered everything that was about Christine.

"Yes. I had only just begun to teach you. You were still a child."

Christine huffed. "I was hardly a child at sixteen Erik."

"Well, compared to the woman you are now." Erik looked down at her with a sidelong glance, but she seemed nonchalant.

"I suppose so, but we are getting side-tracked. Remember when I told you that she was becoming very close with another ballet girl and I was feeling as if she had forgotten me? And then we had gotten into a horrible quarrel about it all?"

"Yes, I do."

"It all sounds so silly now, but there is one thing from it that stayed with me. Do you remember what you told me?"

Erik frowned. He could remember the scene, Christine almost red from anger, but he was far less apt at remembering matters concerning him. His silence made her continue.

"You told me 'even if your friend is fond of another, it does not mean that they have forgotten you.' That was all I was meaning to say when I spoke of Raoul."

Erik dwelled on this for a moment. He had only really had one friend, Nadir. He knew quite certainly that the wish to keep Christine to himself was not the same thing; the Vicomte could marry Nadir for all he cared! Of course she did not know how he yearned for her, and in what way, and that was best, but he felt the sting of it anyway. Yet something else struck him more than that sentiment.

"You believe we are friends?"

Christine sighed. "I don't know yet."

Erik nodded, feeling a part of him become elated and a part of him shatter. "And the Vicomte?" He tried his best to mask the poisonous edge to his voice.

"What about him?" She shrunk more into her cloak even as her tone was indifferent.

"Do you believe you will… marry him?"

A shrug. "I suppose I will have to marry someone at some point. I only know him from my childhood, so I would have to see who he is as a man. And besides, I am not sure if his family would take kindly to him marrying a title-less opera tart." Even as she said it, Christine found a lack of desire to indeed see Raoul; it was so much harder to keep up appearances with him. She found that although Erik at times scared her, she could speak her mind to him. After all, she had a feeling that although he had a certain distinguished nature about him, it was more something that radiated from his air than a societal expectation. But never mind, courting was supposed to be about such pretences and pomp, wasn't it?

"Do not call yourself that. You are worth more than any Vicomte." He muttered, gaze steadfast ahead of them. Something warm curled into Christine's chest despite the cold, watching the visible side of his face, his amber eyes and furrowed brow and strong jaw. For some reason she wished the mask was gone, so she could see his expressions properly. A giddy feeling overturned her stomach with butterflies in the excitement of seeing his full smile…

"That is kind of you to say Erik."

"One kindness in a night of brutality hardly warrants praise Christine." His tone was laced with a sad sort of reproach, his lips frowning.

"You may be right, but I do not believe such deeds should be tallied up and weighed against each other at the end of each day. I care more about what you will do tomorrow." She quipped as they reached her gate. She turned back to see a smile beginning to curl onto his mouth.

_How his eyes melt into honey when he smiles! How strange!_

"I fear you are too forgiving."

"And I fear you are too unforgiving."

"Goodnight Christine."

"Goodnight Erik."


	9. Chapter 9

As winter bled away so did the uneasiness between Erik and Christine, replaced with something indeed akin to friendship amongst the spring blossoms. They fell into a simple routine, having lessons several times a week with few outbursts or quarrels. Given the Vicomte's attention had been turned towards his familial duties, thus limiting his appearances at the opera, their sparring was left to being over difficult arias….

"You are _not trying _Christine Daaé!"

"I _am_, you horrible man!"

"Are you listening to the note you are producing? It is not just flat, it is abhorrent!"

"I have told you Erik, since Carlotta has returned I have limited practice in rehearsals!"

"That is what she _wants_,my dear. She knows you are better, and so you cannot afford to fall out of practice, lest you fail continuing to outperform her."

"Why must you be so infuriating?"

"Because you know I am correct."

…Erik's temper…

"Erik, I don't care if she called me a toad or whatever she said, you always say to keep my head high and ignore her!"

"This is _unacceptable. _What are those managers doing while their singers are being abused by that sad excuse for a prima donna? I will wring her bloated, foul neck until she will not be able to utter a single word in that horrid voice…"

"Erik don't say such things!"

"Christine, I am merely trying to defend you from that _witch_…"

"I _do_ _not _need the Phantom threatening others in my defence! You terrorise André and Firmin enough as it is!

"If they would simply listen to…"

"Enough! I wish to speak to Erik now, not the godforsaken Opera Ghost."

…and board games.

"My dear, dare I say, you seem to be lagging a bit behind."

"Hush, you old fool. I am trying a new strategy."

"Do tell me how that ends for you… as I believe I have won."

"Jävla skit!"

"I may not speak Swedish Christine, but do mind your vulgar curses."

It was selfish of him, Erik knew it, but as the days slipped by with her in his life he didn't know if, when the time came, he would have the strength to let her go. He would, he must, the disgusting creature that he was. What would she think of how he ached to give her the fairytale love he knew she could picture with the Vicomte? Of how he could almost imagine, on lonely evenings, their life together, playing nard, talking for hours as they did, teaching her and watching her take the stage, holding her through the night, the satin of her skin against his…

But no, as he watched her from his piano, her delicate brow furrowed as she lay curled up on the loveseat reading a novel from his library, he knew that this was a dream, that having her here for even a moment in his cursed life was a blessing. How she infuriated him, how she tempted him, how she made his heart sing and music spill from his very being, it was all a blessing.

Her eyes flashed up to meet his, a slight smile tweaking her pillowy pink lips.

"It is rude to stare. And you have stopped playing." She teased, returning to her book and brushing a wayward curl from her collarbone.

"Indeed." His tone was blunt, flushed from his thoughts and his wretchedness and her purity. His fingers returned to the keys to resume the song, but there was now a barely detectable edge to the soft, lilting notes. Christine frowned and put her book down; she was becoming astute at sensing his mood changes.

"Is something the matter, Erik?"

"Not at all."

But the melody was building into a crescendo, the passion emitting from the piano crashing through the room. His body moved with it but with his eyes bared open as if he was beating it into submission rather than being pulled by its sound. Christine rose, cautiously approaching him.

"Erik?" A small, wary hand on his shoulder stilled him.

_Does she know that every touch freely given by her undoes me ever more?_

"Yes, Christine?" The strain in his words was most definitely perceptible. The hand was removed abruptly.

_Idiot!_

"Why don't you tell me one of your Persian stories? It's been a week since the last one, when you told me of the Shah's…um, many lady attendants." The eagerness and embarrassment of such eagerness in her voice made him sigh remorsefully, idly caressing the keys of the piano.

"I am afraid I cannot think of any tonight, my dear."

Christine's frown deepened, but she was determined to rescue the night from his inner turbulence. Fiddling with her hands, she carefully watched the black-suited expanse of his back.

"Would you sing for me?"

Erik's head half-turned, facing her with a masked profile. She took his silence with slight anxiety, the words tumbling out one after the other, still madly fidgeting and failing to appear nonchalant.

"Well, you haven't sung to me since, well _that_ night, and I remember it was so beautiful and wonderful…"

"I wish you remembered nothing of that night." It was between a growl and a whisper, but, seeing her face flash with disappointment and worry he relented, settling back onto the bench and pausing. Erik's hands took over, sleepwalking into a sweet lovesong about two ill-fated lovers that was popular when he was a boy whilst attempting to curb the flood of warmth in his chest as she sat beside him, closing her eyes. He began to sing, softly at first, but feeling her closeness his dulcet, velvety and powerful voice swelled, surrounding her. Christine felt every inch of herself both unfurl and spark, his voice almost curling itself around her, intoxicating her with its richness, and for the oddest moment, Christine felt like she might cry.

_It is a sad song, after all. What poor lovers, being together in death rather than life…_

Silence eased back into the room, and Erik sat back, delicately finishing on a gentle note. Christine's eyes fluttered open, finding her lap in quiet revelment.

"Your voice is so…glorious. Thank you for sharing it with me." She wanted to say how she knew it had be shared to the world on the stage, but she was still mindful of how easy his bad mood could return and flare. She would be sad to dim the shimmer of pride in his eyes, even if his face was still expressionless.

"I used to sing for the Shah."

Christine's stupor was broken as she considered him with wild excitement and surprise. He was not looking at her as he put away his music.

"Really?"

He nodded wordlessly, and Christine decided not to push farther tonight. Standing and gathering he rest of his sheets, he glanced back at her quickly, reaching into his waistcoat for his pocketwatch. Christine felt the familiar sting of discontent.

_That damn pocketwatch…_

"You should be getting home for some rest, Christine. It is actually very late, I will have to escort you."

Christine yawned wearily, thinking of nothing she rather _not _do than trek to her house in the middle of the night. Perhaps, if she just had a few blankets…would he really oppose of her curling back up on the loveseat? She would then have plenty more sleep for rehearsals tomorrow, given the stage was just above them.

"Erik, would it be alright if I stayed the night…here?" It seemed like a perfectly reasonable question, but the meekness in her voice was testimony to her trepidation. There wasn't anything really unproper about sleeping here, was there? She then realised the source of the throb of her worry; she would be sharing a house, by herself, with a man.

_Erik is a man, indeed, but I do not believe he would ever do anything…untoward. He is simply my maestro, a dear friend…_

Erik blinked rapidly as he processed what she had asked. He thought of telling her no, afraid of the tug in his core, but he knew an even more certain urge; he would never hurt her, and certainly not in such a grotesque way. He suddenly felt sick at the notion, but the pull of the desire had eased and soothed into something more tender.

_To think, her sleeping so close to me, my little dove, in my own house!_

"If that is what you wish. Come, let me show you your room."

Christine followed at his heel in confusion. The room had been built back in the days when he was an angel and had dreamed of taking her to live down here with him for all eternity. Shaking his head of the mania that had accompanied those weeks of construction, he opened the door for her. It was decorated with light fabrics, a far cry from the rest of his deep and dark house, and furnished with a four-poster bed, dressing table and wardrobe, the latter which he dreaded her opening as it was filled with numerous dresses and nightwear, all tailored to her approximate size. Christine stood with her mouth agape.

"Is this, is this for me?"

"Yes, unless I have another prima donna in my house I am unaware of." He tried to jest but it seemed a bit hollow.

"Erik…" She was stunned, walking slowly around the room with her neck craned to take in the sheer satin drapes that fell about the bed. The silence which followed the breathy exhale of his name worried Erik.

"You don't like it. You can have it however you like, perhaps new fabrics, a less gaudy dressing table…" He was wringing his hands, feeling so unbelievably _silly_, an emotion the Opera Ghost was unsure he had ever felt. Christine giggled in disbelief, shaking her head so her curls swayed.

"It's perfect Erik, really, I just can't believe…when did you make this?" She was running her fingers over the silk sheets, picking up the dainty hairbrush on the dressing table, bending to trace the pattern of the crimson Persian rug on the floor, wide smile and eyes sparkling. Erik felt breathless watching her, but continued to fidget and ooze with embarrassment nonetheless.

"Well, some time ago, when I was still your…well, I just thought…just in case. No matter, I will leave you to sleep. Goodnight Christine…" He gave her a quick nod and seemed poised to flee, but Christine stood quickly in dismay.

"Would you like to stay up a little while longer? I know it is dreadfully late, but I really am not tired, and I can sleep into the morning for longer as I can be to rehearsals in minutes, and I was so greatly enjoying your playing…unless you are wanting to sleep?" She added the last part hastily, pacing towards Erik who was still lingering in the doorway. He blinked.

"Do not mind Erik's sleep. I will keep you company as long as you wish." Christine's smile grew even more, a giddiness sweeping through her heart.

"Wonderful! Well, I may try to loosen my…well…clothing slightly and I will come out and join you…"

"There are clothes in the wardrobe. I will fix you something to eat; I have heard your stomach growling for an hour now." He stated in that polite and blunt tone, before closing the door behind him. Brow furrowed and grasping her stomach in slight mortification, Christine made her way to the wardrobe. Inside it she found it nearly full of dresses, from nightgowns to house-wear to expensive and intricate pieces. Holding up an azure dress with a rather sublime embroidered bodice (it was the exact colour of her eyes, but Christine did not realise), she felt extremely touched and bashful, as well as dazed by confusion.

_He went to so very much trouble! This has so much intent…may Erik really care for me? In a way that is perhaps… dearer than friendship?_

Purposefully brushing away such thoughts and the influx of emotions which accompanied them, Christine undressed. She had only removed her corset by herself a handful of times, but with after a struggle it was released from her, storing it and the rest of her garments in the wardrobe. Feeling rather flushed standing in just her drawers and chemise within his house, especially after her recent contemplations about Erik's intentions, she quickly chose the most modest nightgown she could find, only casting a lingering glance over a particular low-cut shift of lace and silk. Gulping, she pulled on the dress and adjusted the long, cuffed sleeves, buttoning the collar up to her chin. Legs almost shaking but scolding herself for being so childish, Christine left the room to go find her company for the night.

Erik was in the living room, placing a plate of cold meats, cheese and bread along with some dried lime tea on the little oak table they used for games of nard. Toying nervously with the sides of her gown, Christine walked lightly over to the loveseat, trying desperately to stop the flush in her cheeks as she felt his gaze upon her. She waited as he took his seat in that wonderful carved chair before she spoke.

"Thank you for the clothing. I am so overwhelmed by your generosity…" She trailed off as she realised how he was looking at her. His aureolin eyes were burning fiercely as they trailed along the contours of her body, as if he was sketching her to pinpoint accuracy within his mind. Christine repressed a shiver; his stare was so deep and passionate that it made her feel like he was touching her skin. Dear God, why was he looking at her in that way?

"It is nothing." It was almost a rumble, how low his voice was. Christine suddenly felt self-conscious, in the presence of a man in nightclothes, in no corset. Suddenly, Erik felt less like her dear friend and maestro than a living man, with a beating heart and a gaze that made her mouth dry….

Desperate to clear the air that had seemed to thicken around them, Christine thanked him in a flighty tone for the food, giggling haphazardly as she sampled all in front of her with gusto. Erik remained unreadable. Her mass of curls fell about her shoulders and down her back, her cheeks pink and a dewy expression in her eye, the vague silhouette of her slight, exquisite figure seeming so real and tangible under the cotton of the nightgown.

"Would you like anything to eat Erik?"

"No thank you, Christine."

"Really Erik, I cannot be expected to eat of all of this by myself…"

"The mask has to be removed when I eat." It was said in a gruff tone that attempted to end the matter. Christine frowned deeply, watching him clasp and unclasp his hands on the armrests. She thought of leaving it at that, not wanting to cause him discomfort, but a thrill had begun to vibrate in her veins at the thought of seeing his full face, properly this time, without the consequence of his shock and violent fury.

"May you take off your mask, Erik?"

His eyes widened, snapping to hers. She half-thought he would lash out, but she met him with an unwavering, steely gaze. Their wills seemed to stand across from each other, both stubborn and determined. After a minute of tension, Christine attempted to ease the room and Erik himself.

"Please, Erik?" Her compassion, that compassion which he knew marked his Christine eternally as an angel on earth, undid him. Sighing shakily and with a slight tremble to his fingers, Erik removed the mask.

He did not dare look at her as she took in his features once more. Time was now in abundance as she studied every dip and crevasse and distortion in the candlelight, the way his lips swelled on one side, the maze of glassy scars that ran up into his hairline. Silent and slow with wonder, Christine stood and put a gentle but firm hand on his head. He did not pull away as she slipped off his wig, placing it beside his mask. Carefully fingering the soft strands of hair underneath, she then became emboldened as her fingertips grazed down his forehead, her other hand mirroring the action on his perfect side. They felt the soft and rough patches as her eyes familiarised themselves with each inch, the divots and creases, meeting together at his chin.

_He is truly deformed, and it is an ugly deformity…_

But tears began to strike her fingers, and his hands had wrapped around her wrists, barring any further exploration. To see his damp eyes, those eyes which belonged only to Erik, settled something deep within Christine.

_Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore._

"Enough, Christine." He choked, paralysed by both love and fear. Christine simply brushed her fingers against his face, drying his tears even as he still held her hands. His grasp fell effortlessly as she took a step back, drifting back to the loveseat and considering him with a gentle expression as she sat. They fell into a quiet moment.

"Would you like me to cut you some cheese, Erik?" Christine attempted in a cherry tone, but the notes fell a bit flat under the weight of such revelations and agony. She was trying to hold the knife steady as her grip shook, glancing to him through her sooty eyelashes. He was motionless, swallowing hard.

"I am afraid I have lost my appetite."

Christine had to grimace at the pain in his voice. She lay down the knife.

"If you do not cover yourself in my company, I will begin to know your face. Is that something you could do?" She asked sternly but hopefully as she distractedly poured each of them a cup of tea. Erik found his voice, trying to not feel so horribly exposed as he did.

"Does it not disgust you?" His tone was reflexively cruel and mocking, although tinged with a tremor.

She met his eye fiercely in a flash of anger in how he would think so little of her and the conviction of her words, but when she realised his vulnerability and turmoil along with his dulled yet still prickling wrath, she softened.

_Poor, unhappy Erik!_

"No." Followed by a sincere though sad smile.

He nodded absently. Perhaps some things should not be questioned


	10. Chapter 10

After it was made clear that Christine would not compromise on the matter of the mask, Erik complied with her desires. Though he would still always greet her fully covered, and initially also conducted their lessons in this way, he would remove it all with a raise of her eyebrow.

_How you disgust her, and she will pretend that she cares for you and that your abhorrent face does not repulse her, and then she will destroy you…_

It was easier to ebb the stabbing doubts when she was with him, especially in her nightgown late in the evening when he would play for her, or in the morning when she would emerge in one of _his _dresses with eyes still glazed dimly from sleep. Those nights were both blissful and painful, as he stalked the house and attempted to avoid her room. After some weeks of her habitually sleeping under the opera house, he had tried her door out of curiosity. It was open, and his heart throbbed at her trustfulness, but he spared her the nightmare of the Phantom leering over her sleeping form.

Erik's face, however, was something that ran deeper with its stab wounds on his psyche. He tried to ignore how sometimes her sight would flicker towards the twisted half, observing how it contorted as he concentrated or when a particular expression crossed it. Erik's self-consciousness made his moods more susceptible to their unpredictable turns, his temper simmering just under the surface to be set alight by an innocent word or glance.

"Do not let the freakish display distract you." He had growled bitterly when he once noticed her staring, moving a hand instinctively to cover the deformity. Christine blinked back to reality as the music stopped with his abrupt scowl, seated at the piano bench next to him. She touched his hand softly in reassurance, and he had to gasp as his skin inflamed under her fingertips. Her rare caresses were so foreign to him, his life being devoid of such tenderness, but he marvelled still at how his body reacted to them. Sometimes he did not know if he wished to take her into his arms or simply weep.

"I can see how you feel the music, I can see it on your face." She had smiled dreamily to herself, placing her hand back in her lap before gesturing him to continue. He had only seldomly questioned her conviction aloud after that.

"Erik, it's your move." Christine ended his musing with her impatient reminder, determined in her studying of the board. His cup was refilled with tea, and he took a sip as he slid a checker. Christine gasped and swore something in Swedish under her breath (and the damn girl called herself _pious_), as Erik indulged briefly in the daydream of how perfect their life could be, with her in that nightgown (although he might prefer her to wear the one of sheer lace, or indeed, nothing at all) while he sat, at times vaguely unbothered by his masklessness, and made her laugh and curse, before returning to his bed, _their _bed, where he would make her cry his name like it was a hymn sung to the heavens, all with his black-stoned ring upon her delicate finger.

Christine huffed and forcefully moved a checker, watching him smile faintly. She still felt weak with amazement and delight at seeing his full smile, it really did grace his face so wonderfully. Over time, the unique ridges of his distortions had become just a part of Erik, and like the rest of him, Christine became both accustomed and fond of their strangeness. How lovely evenings were with him! Although she had felt the bite of his anger several times since she urged him to bare himself, she understood that the root of it lay with his own insecurity. Whilst he did not speak of it to her, she knew how he looked had brought suffering upon him, and so she remained ever-patient. Christine regarded him considering his next move and wondered if she would have known Erik at all if not for his marks, because, from the handsome contours of his unmarred side, his compelling eyes, his talents and his voice…she knew that the Empress herself would have fallen for him.

"I believe I have won again, my dear." He purred, trying and failing to hide a self-satisfied smirk. Christine sighed in frustration, agile fingers quickly plucking up the checkers and dropping them in the bag.

"I suppose you do not wish to play another round then?" He asked with a hint of guilt, though his eyes still shone with good humour. Christine didn't look at him as she stood and gathered up the board to put away.

"I never win." She grumbled as he watched her slight frame march about the living room. He collected up their tea and took it all to the kitchen, calling out as he planted the porcelain on the bench. "You are most definitely improving! I believe you are becoming a fearsome adversary indeed!"

"You are just saying that."

"I certainly am not."

"Well come sit, you flattering fool, and tell me one of your stories." Christine was smirking despite herself, curling up in the loveseat and resting her chin upon her hand.

"Perhaps you could regale me with a story of your own tonight?" He challenged, taking his seat. She did not tell him of her past as she used to when he was an angel, and he found he sorely missed how her eyes sparked and her hands flailed when she would recount an old memory to him. Christine furrowed her brow, then realised he was indeed serious.

"I am not as good of a storyteller as you are." She fretted, fiddling with a lock of hair.

"Nonsense."

They waited in silence as Christine's eyes flitted about the room, lips moving slightly in the effort of thinking of something. A sudden giggle burst from her, her gaze still distant.

"When I was a child, my father kept many violins in the household, but he had a favourite. It was this gorgeous instrument made specially for him, with a rich, bright sound a tiger-striped back. One day, he had left it out, and I had picked it up just to pluck the strings. I noticed one, I think it was the D string, was out of tune, so I began to turn the tuning peg as I had seen my father do many times, but then snap! It broke." She flared up her hands, her eyes wide with theatricality. "I did not know what to do, so I unthreaded the string from my shoe and tied it into the empty place." She erupted into chiming laughter, her face turning positively pink.

"You replaced the violin string with a shoelace?" Erik's dry, frowning tone made her laugh even more.

"Yes! He was beside himself, and I told him that the elves had done it!"

Erik shook his head and chuckled, Christine still catching her breath from all her gleeful mirth. Both of their gazes gleamed with a warm merriment.

"You are an odd girl." His crooked smile made Christine's heart leap for no good reason.

"I suppose, but you are not one to talk monsieur." Her playfulness made him grin, her sunny nature melting every tension in his mind and body. "I should sleep now Erik, if you don't mind." She yawned, stretching out her lithe limbs as she stood. "Will you retire soon?" His late hours worried her somewhat, but she knew he was undeniably set in his ways.

"Shortly. I will compose for a while."

"Alright. Goodnight Erik."

"Goodnight, my dear."

He saw the bashful glint as she glanced back, just for a moment, before she rounded the corner into the long hallway. His music that night was great and terrifying, then sweet in longing, then quiet in melancholy.

_Oh, Christine…_


	11. Chapter 11

Christine was emerging from her dressing room after a rather troubling morning with Erik when she saw Raoul again. Clothed in one of those delightful dresses in the wardrobe, a pretty apricot gown with a rather delicate lace neck, Christine had mulled over what had occurred. Out she had come, as per every morning she spent down below, but instead of finding him perched at the dining table, scribbling something or other with a plethora of food laid out, the house was quiet and dark. Certain she had obtained the correct time from the clock on her bedside table, Christine wandered, a little unsettled, searching for the Opera Ghost.

_Is he perhaps in his bed chambers? I should not disturb him if that is the case, but would it be rude to leave without saying goodbye? Am I confident in finding the path up to my dressing room by myself?_

Skittering thoughts chasing around her head, Christine checked the obvious places; kitchen, living room. It was as she was creeping down the long hallway, trying to guess which door could lead to his quarters and which to her certain death, that she remembered a particular spot she hadn't checked; his music study, where his organ was, where she had first unmasked him while he was consumed by his composing. Shaking away the shudder that accompanied those memories, she paced back through to the living room where the fireplace still sparked dimly, and towards the large, far-sided door which was firmly shut. A few, hesitant knocks. Nothing.

_Well, I might as well see if he is in here…_

Pushing against the heavy wood, Christine stepped into the shadowy room with its high, cathedral-like ceiling. Crumpled paper, some with heavily inked strike-throughs and some with incoherent words scrawled, lay scattered about the stone floor. A candle was dying, but in its scarce light she could see the magnificent outline of the organ, its metal pipes so commanding in their height that it held the regalness of a throne. Hunched at its mantle, forehead resting against his forearms on the instrument, was a sleeping Erik. He had stripped off his evening suit jacket, leaving him in his white dress shirt, his beautifully embroidered waistcoat and loosened cravat. Christine, slightly stunned and in awe of seeing him this way, held her breath for a minute, lest he wake up and fly into a fit of rage.

But no, she realised as she approached him, he was truly asleep. Tilting her head down to see his face, she noticed how his distortions seemed to smooth into something peaceful. With his fiery eyes closed, his chest slowly rising and falling, Erik was transformed into a human, an extraordinary human, perhaps, in all sense of the world, but certainly not a phantom or ghost. Christine could not bear to wake him. Turning to leave, she was stopped in her tracks as a soft whimper, a noise she had never imagined could Erik make, echoing through the small room. His eyes were still closed, but he had seemed to tense, his brow furrowed in distress and his misshapen lips quivering. A breath, a choked gasp, and then a horrible, painful howl rang through Christine's ears, so pure in its terror and torture that she screamed in fright, panic taking over any rationality as she frantically took his shoulders and shook him awake.

"Ch-Christine?" He had panted, his eyes burning yet dazed even as she still held tight to him, fists bunched in the fabric of his shirt.

"Erik, good God Erik, are you…are you alright?" Caught in deep worry, Christine's sapphire eyes flashed to his and then to every part of him, as if assessing him of some medical ailment in a manic sort of way. Her touch followed; the back of her hand against his forehead, two fingers on the pulse in his throat, before settling on each side of his face to give that a proper examine with her searching gaze. As Erik came into consciousness, he just simply wished she would stop her ministrations, lest his poor heart give out entirely.

"I'm…fine." He moved to stand up, ignoring her concern as she stepped back.

"Did you…have a bad dream?" Christine probed gently, her hands beginning to fidget in that way he knew happened when she was upset.

"You will be late. I will escort you to your dressing room immediately." That impassive tone which always frustrated Christine slid easily into the room as he checked his pocketwatch. Before she could speak, he had pulled on his suit jacket and left, his footsteps clicking furiously on the floor.

"Erik…" She had tried as they crossed the lake, but when he made no reply, his mask and wig now in place and his expression thus unreadable, she did not go further. A curt farewell had barely left his lips before he had disappeared behind her mirror.

_Oh Erik…_

He must have terrible nightmares, Christine thought sadly. There seemed to have been so much hurt and ugliness in his life, but he would tell her none of it. Yet she could glimpse it in his fits of rage, when he had strung the rope around his neck, and when he had wept silently as she held his face after seeing it properly for the first time.

_Every time I believe we are truly close to each other, I realise just how distant he keeps himself from me. But I suppose there is no good reason why this should concern me, as I am merely his student, but I would like to hope, also his friend…_

Her heart heavy and sore, she opened the door to go to rehearsals and was stopped by a bristling Vicomte de Chagny.

"Raoul! I-"

"Lord help me Christine, what is the matter with you! I never see you, you disappear, you do not reply to any invitations I send, and I receive a strange note which you insist means nothing!" Raoul's anger seemed so _boyish _when compared to the thunderstorms of Erik, and oddly Christine found she did not seem to feel relief towards the Vicomte at that comparison.

"I am so very sorry Raoul. I have been wanting to see you, it has just been so dreadfully busy." She attempted to brush past him, but he caught her wrist. Although Erik had done exactly that, and perhaps far more unforgivingly when she had unmasked him, there was never the spark of intention behind it as Raoul had now, holding her in the low-lit corridor. Christine glared at him.

"Let go, Vicomte de Chagny." Her even and stern voice almost surprised her. She hadn't been able to muster it into even a squeak to him on the night of Hannibal, and she vaguely wondered if the change was Erik's doing.

_I must get Erik off my mind!_

"My sincerest apologies, Christine. Please say you'll have supper with me, tonight?" The earnestness in his eyes, and Christine's dizziness from the morning made her simply wanting to leave.

"Yes, alright Raoul. I will meet you after rehearsals." She said with a half-sincere, half-forced smile. She did care for her childhood friend, and really, as she had said to Erik, pursuing a courtship with him would be not a terrible idea. Flushed by the reminder of Erik's one condition, but promptly putting it aside, she bid adieu to the smiling Vicomte before hurrying to the stage.

…

The days between Christine's lessons dragged by as they usually would for Erik, but this time they did with a twinge of pinpricking wrath. How could he have been so _stupid_? He fell asleep, a useless practice he rarely indulged in, and then of course, when the inevitable terrors came, she found him, a s_hrieking_, _whimpering_ mess! Erik hurled a candelabra at the thought, barely feeling sated as it clanged noisily against the wall. He couldn't fathom how he had fallen asleep, given he hadn't used morphine. The picture of a shoelace in a violin had drifted gently and warmly through his consciousness as he saw the time creep past 4 o'clock in the morning, he remembered that much. Regardless of the cause, it was something that could not happen again with his little dove sleeping in his home.

Feeling sick sitting before the organ, Erik bled his fury into the piano until he was certain he would shatter a key. It was both a relief and a torment to collect Christine for her lesson, their descent noticeably silent with Erik violently beating down the urge to bring his frustration out on her. As they prepared for her lesson, he waited for the usual look from her to remove his mask and wig, but she seemed distracted, her eyes lost in the distance and a frown on her lips.

"Are you ready to begin, my dear?" His voice was supple and warm, trying to evoke that comfortable place they had seemed to exist in for so long. She blinked, and then a smile that did not touch her eyes.

"Yes, Erik."

Afterwards, once he was collecting up his music, Christine finally spoke more than just a word to him.

"I got cast as Countess." It was lacking feeling, her tone, and she was inspecting a bookshelf rather than looking at him.

"Really? My dear, that is exciting news indeed! Why did you not tell me?" Erik couldn't help his pride and his excitement, grasping her hand in both of his and squeezing it affectionately.

_Dear God… what are you doing?_

He dropped his hold almost immediately. Christine shot him a sudden scowl.

"As if you don't already know I got it! I am only Countess because you have been terrifying the managers!" She met him with an accusing and stormy stare, her voice biting. Erik, for once in his life, was confused. He had been too preoccupied, damn him, wallowing in his regret and self-hatred to observe rehearsals, and in the case of the managers…well, they had been quite agreeable in paying his salary since Carlotta had returned, obviously desperate to avoid any further incidents that would cause another walk-out.

"I apologise, my dear, but I had nothing to do with your success."

"You _liar_!"

He was taken aback by her venom, which was not entirely fair considering she had every right to call him a liar, but yet he could see something slipping behind the anger.

"You tell me that I am the best prima donna to grace the stage, that I have talent, that I will make something of myself! And I believed I could! I believed I could make a name I can be proud of and not cling to my father's accomplishments as my own, but you lie! You get me the parts like you did with Hannibal, you say you didn't, but it was your actions! And then you and me and the whole of Paris will realise I am just a fraud, that I am a ballet rat, that I am a delusional chorus girl, and I will be thrown back into the dirt and forgotten!"

A sob muddled her rush of words, and by the time she was finished she was bringing her hands up to brush away the steady trickle of tears rolling from her glassy eyes. Her slim shoulders heaved, and oh, how he wanted to wrap her in him, to hold her slight frame within his, to bury his terrible face into her silken curls and croon how she did not know her own greatness.

"Christine, this is simply your nerves. Do not give them the power to doubt yourself." The stern professionalism of a teacher. Christine sniffled and drew her arms about herself, and he felt his heart sting.

"You are probably right. I…I am sorry for being cross Erik."

"No need, my dear. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes please. And may you take your mask off?"

How was he to refuse such a soft plea?

…..

Christine traced the rim of her teacup absently as he composed on the piano. For her sake, he was re-working some of the lighter pieces rather than the destructive, crashing melodies of the last few days.

"There is something else."

"Yes?" He tried to appear unreceptive to the dreading tone of her voice.

"I have begun seeing…Raoul again."

The music stopped. Christine watched the expanse of his black-suited back anxiously.

"Oh?" It was unsettling how his voice betrayed nothing.

"Yes, well, just a few evenings."

_I can imagine the smiling bastard now, purring over crystal glasses…_

At his silence, Christine put down her teacup and joined him on the piano bench, peering up at him.

"Well, this isn't really about him anyway. I was just going to ask you, and I know it's completely ludicrous, but you see, his family put on this big event of the season at their estate. It's a masquerade ball, and well, I have been invited. And I asked Raoul if I could bring someone to escort me…"

"Is the Vicomte not escorting you himself?"

"I said I had someone in mind."

And from the blushing, coy smile she gave, he knew she would be the death of him.


	12. Chapter 12

Preparing for the role of Countess was something that occupied all the time and thoughts of both Christine and Erik. They agreed on a lesson practically every day, which was trying and exhausting, but necessary. Erik was a man who had led his life unquestioned and uncompromising, his perfectionism unwavering and his control absolute. There were limitations, he quickly realised, when attempting this perfection with a half-petrified and half-ecstatic Christine.

"I can't Erik! I simply can't! And it's so late…" She wailed wearily as he insisted on her to start from the beginning of the aria. Her beautiful lips were pushed into a pouting frown, her hand coming up to rub a red-tinged eye.

"Christine, again." His voice was low and smooth, curling up the end in warning.

"But Erik…"

"Again."

And she would sigh and fuss but she would listen, because regardless how she felt, some integral part of her knew that Erik's command was something she could not refuse. But oh, how she felt when he pulled those glorious notes from her, as if he was opening her chest like a bird's wings and filling it with silver light. And as they painstakingly worked through each line, each syllable, each note, Christine had felt her excitement grow and burst from her. This was the last real uncertain piece, Lord help her, and so with his aurelian stare upon her, she would try.

"Again, Christine."

There. She had reached the height and fluttered down from it as effortlessly as a butterfly, clear and controlled.

_And every time he looks at me like that, it does seem to make it all worth it…_

Erik had barely stepped from the piano bench with pride glistening in his eyes when Christine, crying out in pure exuberance, leapt towards him and flung her arms about his neck.

"Thank you Erik! Thank you Erik!" She was laughing mindlessly, so joyously tired and relieved that she had sung it all, that she _could _sing it all! There was work to be done, yes, but how Carlotta would _squirm _in rehearsals with the final aria nearly flawless!

Erik's mind, on the other hand, was wiped of the aria with her dear little body pressed against him, her sweet scent muddling any thought of praise or critique. He did not dare caress her in return, even as her soft hair brushed against his fingertips and her rather low-cut dress exemplified the gentle curvature of her luscious breasts, undulating with her rapid, careless breaths. As she pressed the side of her smiling face against his chest, a tug of agony and tenderness twinged in his throat. He probably needed morphine, needed sleep, because he felt lightheaded despite the ache growing in his core.

_No one has thanked me like that in my life. And she embraces me while this horrid face is bared to her…she is an angel in this world, and I shall never deserve her._

Breaking away Christine hurried back to the music, still chirping gleefully all the while, reviewing the line once more. Erik simply waited for his heartbeat to settle into something normal.

"Erik?" The way her tone softened and seemed pliant meant that she was about to broach the subject of the ball again.

"No Christine."

She gnawed on a lip. "Won't you at least consider it? What could be the harm? I am not important enough to be noticed by anyone of real standing so we wouldn't be bothered, Raoul will probably not even speak to me with his family present, and it's a _masked _ball!"

"So kind of you to remind me that I will not horrify your precious Vicomte's company." Erik snarled, head still spinning from her affections and now frightfully bitter.

"Erik…" She chose to ignore his biting remarks, stepping towards the piano bench. He did not glance up, and lost for words she threw her hands up in frustration. "Is there something wrong with wanting to take you with me?"

"Frankly, my dear Christine, I think you are dreadfully unwell in the head."

Flushing bright red and feeling her temper seize her, Christine's mouth opened and closed as she thought of a reply. Damn him, she did want him to come! He was down here with his books and music, alone besides her. Besides, she had never attended a ball in her life! Was it really so much to ask to have him there, to keep her steady with his unwavering gaze? Such an embarrassing dependency she would never admit it to him, however.

"What can I do in return for you coming?" She pivoted, trying her best to be patient. She knew Erik's will to be hard and unmoving as iron, but perhaps with some gentle easing…

Erik snapped to her eyes coldly, certain that she was taunting him. What could she do in return? She could tell him she loved him, that she _wanted _him, marry him and vow to him before a spiteful God. She could let him remove every layer of her clothing down to her silken stockings and lay her upon the bed with her hair fanning across the sheets like a halo. She could let him seek salvation against her skin, to bring her to ecstasy again and again. To let him clutch her to his foul body as he took her as his and only his. To let him feel something gentle, something pure and light, passion born out of tenderness rather than violence. All lies, it would be all lies, and why would he ask that of her if he knew her soul would lock itself away from him? He was a jealous man, and he wanted _all _of her. Every beat of her heart, every tremor of her body, every daydream of her mind and yes, every melody in her soul.

_She would never give herself to you._

"There is nothing you could offer me."

Christine frowned deeply. She did not know why, but the statement made her feel hurt. Silence. Erik was flipping forcefully through the music, making rapid, scrawled notes about one phrase or another. She watched the distorted side of his face, watched the bloated end of a lip mutter softly over one technicality or another.

"If you need nothing from me, why am I here? Why are you helping me?" The questions started with the vigour of accusation, but her conviction failed and they tilted down as a lament. It felt wrong to say, it felt as if she was being ungrateful. She was grateful, she would always be, but there was so much left unsaid between them! Erik bristled, still not looking at her.

"You have a gift, Christine. I feel responsible in refining it. That is all." The blunt tone in his glorious voice seemed to stab into her. Was she simply a_ voice_ to him? Was it not this man who crawled before her, begging her to see him as he was? Was it not this man who had crafted her a room in his home, who had comforted her in her sorrows? Was it not this man who had wept silently as she held his face? She knew his layers so well, did he know that she could sense when he was not telling her the truth? But oh, she was tired, and she could not try to understand him tonight.

"I think of you as my friend, for what it's worth." She almost whispered, sadly and quietly. Without another look or word, she left to her room, the door clicking as an echo through the hollow rooms.

…..

A soft knock stirred Christine into consciousness. Still glazed with sleep, she sat up amongst the nest of pillows and blankets. A knock again. Forgetting where she was, Christine drew the covers up to her chest in fear as if she was in her own apartment, by herself with some strange visitor. Then, as the settings began to ease into her mind, she realised that it had to be Erik, because unwelcomed strangers were most definitely _not_ permitted in his home. Groaning slightly, she slipped out of the delightfully cosy bed and padded over to the door, still hazy and warm.

She opened it to the sight of a rather distressed Erik. He was wearing both his mask and wig, which initially made Christine believe she was still dreaming, but his fiery eyes were swirling with an unplaceable burning glimmer. She rubbed her eyes and brushed a few locks of hair out of her face. They considered each other for a moment, his commanding figure almost looming over her.

"Christine, I am sorry for waking you, but I wanted to tell you that I care for you, so very deeply, and I am… honoured to be your friend." It came out slightly strained as if he was in pain, speaking as if he was desperate for her to hear him. Christine blinked, and as he suddenly looked ready to flee, she grabbed his hand. His skin felt calloused but his hands were so elegant, so beautifully sinewy and strong yet so graceful. She did not let go even as he froze. Smiling to him, her eyes thanking him, she squeezed his hand in her grip gently just once, then stepped back and closed the door.

Il Muto premiered the following week. The dear girl, despite her nerves, _shone_. Erik watched her from the darkness of the rafters, saw the naturalness of her charm and the brightness in her eyes. There were notes made in his head, of course, but they seemed so unimportant compared to her dazzling smile as she bowed before the thunderous audience, her cheeks flushed. It was a triumph, there was no doubt of it. He waited, half-within her dressing room and half-within her mirror for her to come to him, and so really, it was not even his _fault_ that he overheard the voices just outside the door.

Feeling slightly unreal, Christine strode towards her dressing room, her heart in her ears and liquid in her limbs. She needed to hear his verdict, the urgency of it buzzed in the front of her mind until she could hear nothing else. The Countess dress was heavy and wide-framed, and she had already stripped off the wig by the time she rounded the corner.

_Oh dear God not now…_

"Lotte!" Raoul brazenly kissed her hand, beautiful smile gleaming. He held an overflowing bouquet of pale pink flowers, so heavily perfumed that it was almost sickly and made her head spin. "You were simply splendid! I have been missing our evenings, but I can see you have been hard at work." His compliments were touching, truly, but they fell a bit flat as Christine smiled politely. After all, it was easy to see Raoul was far more concerned with affairs other than her art.

"Thank you, Raoul."

"I am sure you are hoping to retire for some rest, but I am simply hoping to enquire about your attendance of the masquerade ball?"

"Yes! I will most definitely be coming." She chirped lightly, accepting the bouquet of flowers.

"And your mysterious escort?" Raoul was indeed gifted with poise and charisma, but she could sense the almost undetectable poison to his question.

"Yes, well…I am not sure yet." Christine stammered, so unbelievably exhausted and the thought of Erik's rejection of her offer still pricking her heart.

"Remember Lotte, I still remain your humble and ever-reliable second option if necessary." He crooned with another kiss of her hand. Christine smiled her thanks and hastily pushed into her dressing room.

_Well, there is nothing particularly bad about going with Raoul. He's a kind man, has been so very understanding, and I may have a real and true future with him. After all, he actually __**wants**__ to go with me…_

As she turned to see the proud, half-masked face of Erik, his posture noble and extending to her a single dark crimson rose, Christine couldn't help but choke out a stunned laugh of pure joy. She had done it; she could read it on his face, in his eyes. Dumping the bouquet rather unceremoniously onto the dressing table, Christine rushed towards him and plucked the rose from his grasp, holding it delicately between her fingers and twirling it thoughtfully. She looked into its blushing bloom, and then to him, not even concerned by how close he was, or that a hand had brushed a curl off her neck so lightly that it felt like the wings of a butterfly.

"You were simply wonderful, little songbird." He whispered with a voice sweeter than honey and almost as thick, and Christine felt tears at the back of her eyes. He hadn't called her that since he had been her angel.

_Perhaps he still is…_

"Thank you Erik." She didn't know what to say beyond that. An easy hush passed between them, before Erik chimed with a lilted tone "I did have some notes…" but was silenced by a playful glare.

"You are impossible."

"I cannot deny it." He smirked, but then the smile fell into something removed and serious. "Also, I have decided I will accompany you to the ball."

Christine's heart, after such a night, felt like it could not burst further. Yet there she was, grinning like a child and squealing in delight, even jumping slightly where she stood.

"Really? Truly you mean it? Oh Erik, you are simply marvellous, thank you!"

Erik knew he would pay for this decision made in jealousy, but as he watched her prattle on about their costumes, spinning the rose absently with excitement in her smile, he found it hard to care.

**A/N: thanks for reading! the next chapter will be up soon. **


	13. Chapter 13

"My dear, I am afraid we will arrive late if you do not come out soon." Erik frowned at his pocketwatch, calling from outside her bedroom door.

"I will be there in just a minute Erik!" It was a noticeably frantic reply. He could hear the mixture of giddiness and fear, not unlike her first night as Countess. Oddly, Erik found himself calm. He supposed that if he did die tonight, having had Christine on his arm was consolation enough. Or perhaps he knew that if things did take a turn for the worse, he could probably get his hands around the Vicomte's neck before they descended upon him. Musing and drifting back to the living room, he barely heard the quiet footsteps from behind him.

"I'm ready."

Her dress was divine, cascades of blushing rose silk with a sapphire blue tapestry that curled in exquisite patterns by the skirt's bundled bows. The bodice was cut low, and he could see the rapid rise and fall of her delicate chest, her curls pinned up with a lone lock falling about her swanlike neck. From behind a blue-jewelled mask were a pair of even bluer eyes, filled with both earnestness and trepidation.

"Meg and Madame Giry helped pay for the dress, and I did the sleeves myself." Christine rambled self-consciously, holding up her arms to show him the lace-fringed fabric flared at her elbows. Erik's breath seemed stolen in that jittery, delightful smile of hers. She was radiant, dear God, how could this be happening? Swallowing hard, he fumbled slightly in the pocket of his suit jacket to retrieve a smooth leather box, approaching her slowly with his gaze avoiding her in order to not end him completely.

"A prima donna should have some jewellery to wear to such occasions." He muttered, passing her the box as casually as possible, his heart now thrumming. Whilst the prospect of death did not scare him, strangely this made an electricity frazzle his mind.

Christine frowned with brow furrowed, opening the box. Inside was a dazzling silver necklace embedded with glittering, scarlet rubies and diamonds. She blinked; she had never seen anything so beautiful or rare in her life.

"Erik…I can't believe…it looks so expensive." She tugged at her lip, unsure of how on earth she could accept such a gift.

"It does not matter. It is for you." He dismissed though insistently eyeing her reaction. Christine gently touched the precious stones with her fingertips, suddenly feeling as if she was going to cry. She did not know if he remembered what she had told him so long ago, but surely he must. She had never forgotten…

….

"And why are you so cheery, dear child?"

"I had the most wonderful dream last night _ange_!" She had been practically skipping down the corridor, holding onto the sunshine the dream had left in her mind.

"What was this wonderful dream?"

"It's silly, my angel." She was fiddling with a lock of her hair in the way that made Erik's heart hurt.

"Such a splendid dream must be told, do you not think dearest Christine?"

"Oh…alright. I dreamt that I really became a prima donna, the most loved and talented prima donna in the world! I rode in a carriage pulled by white ponies with braided manes, and I wore a silver necklace of rubies and diamonds…"

"You will become a glorious singer, Christine."

"It was just a dream _ange_, but oh, how lovely it was…"

…..

Completely overcome and blinking back tears, a brilliant smile lit up her face as she grasped the box to her chest. She could not find the words to express how this made her feel. It made her feel that she had truly done it, that _they _had truly done it, and she could think back on that child's dream with the knowledge that at least part of it had come true.

"Erik I cannot thank you enough. This means so much… do you remember…well, never mind all that tonight. Will you put it on for me?"

"If you wish, my dear."

Christine gave him the box and turned, letting him come close and drape the necklace about her throat. His fingertips lightly skimmed the nape of her neck, and the touch was so subtle, and he smelt of ink and cedarwood, and for a reason seemingly unexplainable Christine's eyes fluttered close, and for the smallest of moments, she almost thought he might brush his lips to the skin where the clasp had been fastened…

She stepped away jumpily, thanking him again in a pitchy voice. He cut a dashing figure with his dark suit and its gold embroidered accents, his glinting ebony cloak and black mask. Tilting his feathered, Spanish-style hat, Erik gave her his arm, and pushing away the strange rush that had momentarily filled her, Christine took it.

The grand manor of the Vicomte de Chagny was flooded with flickering lights, the figures of the rich and elite downed in gorgeous, exotic fabrics ascending the stairs in the warm summer night. Erik felt the hesitant tremble in Christine's arm as she gripped his tightly, halting before the steps to the entrance. Erik looked down at her and saw her eyes wide. Then, shaking her head briskly, she chirped brightly "onwards!" before lunging forwards. Erik had to supress a chuckle.

_Oh, my little fearless Christine._

After Christine handed up her invitation, they were thrust into a lavish ballroom filled with masked strangers, jewels dripping from proud necks and fans flapping frantically to hide tight-lipped gossip. The hall was made of white marble, chandeliers adorning the vast ceiling, and Christine felt dizzy from the perfumes and the sweet musk of wine, watching the endless dances led to an intoxicating swell of strings. Erik patted her hand resting on his arm in reassurance, and as she smiled nervously up at him she seemed like a startled dove, ready to escape in flight at any moment. For all her confidence on the stage as Countess, the overwhelming indulgence of high society made her heart beat like a hummingbird's. Erik had to scoff at the frosted lavishness; after the dances held in the court of the Shah, such desperate showcases of wealth were almost pathetic in comparison. Spying the drinks, Erik steered them effortlessly through the crowd to take two glasses of sherry. Christine sniffed it and crinkled her nose.

"It will help loosen the worry." He explained, taking a sip of the syrupy liquid, careful to keep a constant eye on everything around them. As Erik quietly marked and counted the exits, Christine followed his lead by taking an ambitious gulp of the wine and raised her eyebrows. Erik watched in part amusement and alarm as she drained the glass, and then another. The drink warmed her throat and trickled into her veins, setting them alight, and after a few minutes a buzz had glazed over her mind and pulled a giggle from her lips.

"Shall we dance, Erik?"

He had hardly time to answer as she led him towards the floor, a pretty waltz starting to drift from out the violins. Suddenly, amidst the twirling gowns, Christine was pressed to him as they fell into rhythm. One small hand was engulfed in his, the other clutching his shoulder. He secured her supple waist, and dear God, did she know how close she was? Did she feel the sidelong stares of the observers as they whispered about this curious, striking couple? It seemed not, as she gazed languidly into his eyes, not breaking their hold once, even as they whirled about the floor, and he oh, could smell the hint of a floral scent on the pulse points in her throat, and for such a flitting second he forgot himself as she leant up to whisper to him.

"You never told me you could dance." Something honeyed oozed from her words, sweet like the sherry.

"Well, I am an old man Christine. I can hear bones creaking even now." He jested, but she huffed rather than laughed.

"You are not old Erik! You barely have any age in your face."

"Just other marks instead." He retorted with an ironic half-smirk. She rolled her eyes dramatically, and Erik had to admit that he was rather enjoying this slightly inebriated Christine.

"Oh, hush."

As he spun her, keeping time and holding her ever-closer, the voices of the crowd dimming in their minds, her eyes sparkled like the diamonds on her delicate collarbone.

"Where did you learn to dance?" She found herself lost in his golden gaze. Although she knew his hands were always cold to the touch, everywhere he held her seemed to warm her skin. Maybe it was the sherry, she rationalised gravely.

"Many places." His tone was low and abrupt, and if she was completely sober, she would know to desist from more insistent questioning. But, alas…

"Won't you tell me Erik? You do not tell me so much…" Christine lamented, her lip pouting.

"I tell you enough." He dropped the matter firmly but gently, desperate to not dampen her lofty spirit with his misery tonight. But how the girl was looking at him! Her head was tilted with a curled smile, her eyes blazing intensely into his before she dropped her gaze to peer up at him through her sooty lashes. A coquette had been made of his pious little Christine!

Christine felt so _alive_, a pulsing white thrill consuming her as the room spun, but she knew Erik would not let her fall. She wanted to thank him properly for the necklace, in that moment when her tongue was liquored, to remind of what she had said and how monumental the gift really was, but he was smiling at her, and his eyes were delightfully thoughtful, passionate but not filled their usual ferocity, and so she decided to simply have this feeling to keep for herself.

But then, he was slowing and the voices came back into her consciousness, the gilded hall, the chortling, polite laughter. As the music faded to a close, a finger lightly tapped Christine's shoulder.

"I am so happy you came Lotte. You look simply splendid." Raoul was dressed like some fairytale prince, all in white with a silver mask. Erik felt his blood stir, his grip on Christine inadvertently tightening. Willing the fact that Christine would never forgive him if he lay a hand on the Vicomte into his mind in order to drown out the stabbing, brutal urge to dispose of him where he stood, he watched as Raoul boasted of the hall and gestured around at the grandeur. Christine smiled and laughed with him, turning to Erik as Raoul's eyes fell upon him with a frown.

"This is my friend I mentioned, from the Opera."

Raoul studied him over carefully, suspiciously, and Erik bit back his deafening fury to nod curtly with an address of 'monsieur'. Raoul's frown transformed into an aloof smile that did not touch his eyes.

"And pray, dear Lotte, does your friend have a name?" His stare, however, remained fixed on Erik.

_Damn it, what to say? A name certainly is followed by many questions, the insufferable bastard…_

As Erik wracked his brain Christine leant in to Raoul, as if about to divulge a most exciting secret, palm even shielding her mouth. Her eyes were wide with theatricality and apparent scandal.

"My friend must remain anonymous tonight, dearest Raoul, as his wife is, let's say, unaware of his whereabouts, and I believe Madmoiselle Bibeau is expecting his company." Her stare flickered over to the notorious woman who was presently draped over a deliriously rich baron. Raoul nodded in understanding even as he kept his incredulous stare on Erik. Erik had to supress a smirk at her convincing performance.

_My God, a born actress._

"Well then, would you mind sir if I had the next dance with our mutual friend here?" His tone was ever-light but it was sharp with a certain type of menace. Christine looked to Erik apologetically, and only with seeing her eyes did he give a silent nod before exiting the dancefloor and disappearing into the mass of vivid and bizarre costumes.

"Now then, Lotte." Raoul smiled brightly as he whisked her into a dance, even as Christine was still watching Erik slip away from sight. It was hard to focus on what Raoul was saying, and she suddenly felt cold and the lights seemed to swim in her head.

"I hope I will be seeing more of you now that your production is over." Raoul's charm oozed as they circled about the floor, and Christine tried for a smile but she felt so _dizzy._

"Of course, Raoul. It really has been so nice seeing my childhood friend again."

Faster. Faster. The colours from the rainbow of gowns flashed, and Raoul's eyes sharpened, but she wouldn't see because she was glancing over his white-silk shoulder, her breath racing.

_Where is Erik? Where is Erik?_

"I am hoping, Lotte, that perhaps you may have come to see me as someone dearer than a friend?"

The crystal clinks of champagne glasses, the flurry of masks…Christine felt as if she was in some strange pantomime, or in a child's music box, spinning eternally with a forever-smiling prince.

"Pardon?"

"I hope I am making my intentions clear. I have fallen for you Christine, and in time- who bought you this?" He was staring at her necklace with a slight scowl, as if he had just noticed it.

"Oh! Well, I-"

"You must care for me Christine." He insisted again with a shake of his head, the necklace rapidly forgotten and his fingers tightening around her waist.

_Do I feel for Raoul in that way? It is so hard to think, everything is spiralling…_

"I care for you, Raoul, I truly do, but I am not sure-"

"With time, Lotte, with time."

And really, what was to say he was wrong? Raoul was nothing but kind-hearted, yet somehow she could not meet his hopeful gaze, the affectionate smile on his handsome face.

"Will you dine with me tomorrow evening?"

"If you would like, Raoul."

He grinned and kissed her hands fervently as the music eased to a stop. Bowing with a flourish and promising to save her another dance, he left swiftly as Christine tried to steady her racing heart and tumbling thoughts.

….

Erik was watching the strutting Vicomte from afar, sipping contemplatively on wine.

_Like a painted peacock, noble blood spoiled in a brainless slave of fashion, oh what does my little dove see in you? Indeed…where is Christine?_

Abandoning his murderous musings, he cast his gaze over the heads of mademoiselles sending him flirtatious smiles and boisterous men of high standing, but instead of the familiar, elegant profile he was seeking, he found someone else entirely. In a second, he was weaving through the crowd purposefully, his stare set on a certain prima donna.

….

Christine searched the ballroom for her escort. The night was getting on, and she had lost him. She expected his temper had flared, and kept her fingertips pressed on her necklace in comfort as she paced earnestly through the crowds of faceless people. Desperately, she took another glass of sherry and drank it quickly in an attempt to subdue any worry.

_What if he has left me in rage? What then? _

In Christine's hurry and distraction, she did not see the figure who was approaching her.

"Here is little Christine Daaé, dreaming of when she will become the Vicomtess!" The venom and the familiar accent snaked into Christine's ears and she glanced up to find a velvet-masked Carlotta stalking towards her furiously, champagne in hand.

_Oh no._

"Signora, I have no quarrel with you…" Christine began, putting out a hand and taking a few steps back in an attempt to flee, but a small crowd had gathered in order to watch the rival opera tarts rip each other to pieces. She was trapped.

"So, is this how you get your parts? Taking the patron as your lover? You are more than a toad, you are a scheming, talentless harlot! And what is more-" Carlotta's lip had trembled as she pointed an accusatory finger at Christine, but the rant was promptly broken off as a roaring, belching croak erupted from her mouth. Everyone fell silent, looking on, stunned, as an aghast Carlotta put a hand over her mouth, tried to speak once more and then exploded with the trumpeting noise again. As the crowd degenerated into riotous snickering and murmuring, Christine felt a presence behind her.

"Shall we take our leave, my dear?" The dulcet, smooth tones of the voice made Christine sigh in exasperated relief.

"I think so, Erik."

…

They burst into his home with her laughter, Christine still very much under the spell of the sherry and swaying as she stripped off her uncomfortable shoes. Nearly hiccupping from the giggles, she looked up at Erik before grinning once more and covering her face with her hands.

"It is so wicked for me to laugh! What in the world did you do to her?"

Erik's eyes, despite the lingering rage from the Vicomte's usurpation of the night, glinted with a hint mirth.

"A magician never reveals their secrets."

Christine shook her head wildly, watching him remove his cloak and hat. With her unspoken request, he also removed his wig and mask, and although he still felt the horridness of exposure, the sincere smile Christine gave him in return melted some of the anguish.

"Let me change out of all this finery." She said with a promise to return quickly, nearly cantering to her bedroom. When she emerged in the nightgown, Erik's heart throbbed to see the necklace still in place, shining against her satin skin. He knew she remembered its meaning, but it was something that did not need to be spoken. Seeing her wear it was enough.

"Oh, it is so nice to be _home_!" Christine exclaimed, flinging herself down onto the loveseat like Cleopatra herself, even as she haphazardly pulled out some pins to let down her cascading hair.

_Home…she called this dungeon home._

Erik's chest felt tight, and he did not dare pay attention to the slip lest she retracted it. He just needed to have that, just for tonight, and then when the morning broke he could bury his delusions when her presence was not muddling every one of his senses.

"How was the Vicomte?" Erik tried to hide the wrath still simmering in his mind, but nonetheless the good humour slipped immediately out of the room. Christine looked down at her twisting hands, guilt knitting her features.

"I am sorry about that Erik. Raoul was just excited, I've spent no time with him since Il Muto…"

"I should have known you would make excuses for him." He seethed, avoiding her pleading gaze by flicking absently through a book left on the table. Christine made a whimper, and suddenly she seemed peculiarly distressed, the way her eyes darted around the place. Forgetting his anger, Erik's brow creased as he observed her.

"Raoul…" She started timidly but then stopped herself, scrunching her eyes tight for a second.

"Is something the matter?"

Christine's mind warbled through the wine, trying to decide whether she should tell him Raoul's confession.

_Well, it really is not any of Erik's business, and no official proposal has been made, and there is no reason to believe that what he said should interfere with my lessons…oh and besides, it would ruin the night!_

"I was worried you had stormed off and left me, when I could not find you." She whispered dejectedly. It was not a lie, and she saw the slump of his sigh, those golden pools softening.

"I would not have left you." Despite his rage, he would have never abandoned her. For better or for worse, he knew he was tethered to this wobbling, vacantly smiling angel, who nodded to herself at his assurance.

"Thank you for coming with me Erik. I needed you." Christine murmured sincerely as she stretched herself contently out on the loveseat. Erik did not know what to say, concerned in part that he might fall to his knees before her and press his face into her warm lap, begging her of something pathetic. Or maybe he would lay reverent kisses upon that delicate ankle which had peaked out from under the nightgown, rolling down the stocking until he could taste her skin. He realised then that this strange middle-ground they were existing in where she permitted his touch, permitted his face, danced and laughed and nearly _lived _with him, it would kill him. Always on the edge of something more, and always denied it.

_This is enough, it has to be._

"Oh! There is one more thing!" Before Erik plunged further into his secret torment, Christine had shot up and skipped down the hall to her bedroom. She reappeared a few moments later, blushing wildly and holding a decorated tin tied in red ribbon. Bashfully, and feeling a little foolish, she extended it into his hands, blinking up at him.

"This is for you. I know it isn't a beautiful necklace, but I was hoping you could taste them now."

Erik frowned as he untied the ribbon and opened the tin. Soft pieces of violet-pink dusted with snowy sugar.

"_In honesty my angel, you cannot eat Turkish delights and so cannot truly understand how difficult it was to resist…"_

Erik was quiet, staring into the tin. Christine became antsy as she watched his reaction, almost hopping from one foot to the other.

"I know it is a bit ridiculous, but do you remember…oh it does not matter, I suppose you wouldn't." She felt the burn of embarrassment as she reached for the tin, but he closed the lid. His face was twisted, his usually fearsome eyes distant and almost…sad.

"No one has given me a gift before." It was so quiet, almost to himself, but before Christine could say anything, just as she reached out again in her sherry-induced daze to embrace him, suddenly wanting to hold him as his life of grief became clear and struck her heart, he turned away and placed the tin carefully on the nard table as if it was a holy relic.

_Poor, unhappy Erik…_

"Erik…" She began mournfully.

"Thank you, Christine. Now, may I get you anything?" He brushed past her to the kitchen. Christine sighed in defeat; the impenetrable, haughty air had returned, as she knew it did when anything regarding his past was brought to the surface. Then, realising his request, Christine smirked devilishly to herself.

"Do you have any wine?"

….

"My dear, I think you have had quite enough now." Erik chastised as he corked the bottle, eyeing Christine's boneless sway as she put down her glass noisily. She had insisted he'd try to teach her chess again, and also insisted on the wine, and both ended with a deliriously drunk Christine. He had been careful to mind how much she had, but little minx had a way of distracting him with an innocent question about a move, or a music technicality, and now she was giggling in abandon and regarding him with a glint in her eyes he had never seen.

"You're no _fun_…"

"I never claimed I was." Erik retorted briskly as he leant back in his chair. She laughed even more, sprawling herself across the loveseat, her curls falling over the plush velvet, turning her head to him. Those sapphires burned into Erik, sending a heat shivering up his skin. Dear God, why was she looking at him that way?

"Come sit here." She abruptly commanded, sitting up and patting the cushion next to her. His heart thrumming in his ears, a dangerous ache in his core, Erik obeyed, stiffly sinking into a space as far as possible from her. Christine scrambled up and shifted next to him, huffing. Little fingers shot up, and before he could comprehend anything, she was pulling loose the cravat around his neck, grazing over his adam's apple as he gulped. His mouth was dry. He felt the sparks her touch ignited, freezing, not able to mask the tremble in his limbs and the hitch in his breath.

"There. It just looked so frightfully uncomfortable."

Then Christine slouched back and curled up her legs, her chin nearly laying on his shoulder, looking up at him drowsily.

_So close. My God she is too close._

"Perhaps you should retire my dear." His voice was tense and hoarse. The marvelment of his little songbird lying by him without fear or disgust was stirring a warmness in his chest, but it was drowned by the fear of both her and himself. He knew the wine was to blame, but what could he _do _with her slackened mouth practically kissing his arm sleeve, her long, pretty lashes catching in the candlelight, her soft waist so near his brutish hand? For a moment, he wondered if she would flinch if he pressed his deformed lips along the ivory column of her throat, just for half a heartbeat. She was so sedated, she may not even remember it, oh, she might even let him, would that be so terrible?

Christine's eyes were suddenly in focus again, sharp azure although the rest of her was still so limp. Erik's mind still reeled from the image of losing himself in the crook of her neck, and he choked on his raspy inhale. Silence hammered through the little space between them, his veins feeling hot as she watched him steadily.

"I sometimes wonder if things should ever have to change. But, I suppose they must. I suppose they must." It was quieter than a whisper, and he could see the tears slide solemnly from Christine's glassy eyes. Wordlessly, simply laid her head against his chest, listened to his erratic heartbeat and sighed, her eyelids heavy. All she felt was a warm, sad sleepiness. A weighted, nameless sorrow.

As Christine slipped into sleep, Erik held her carefully in awe punctured by stark confusion, feeling the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Vague questions faded in and out of his pounding head as he carried her to her bed, laying her down like she was made of fine china amongst the abundant blankets and feather-pillows. Letting himself caress a curl and aching from the yearning coursing through his heart, Erik wished he could close his eyes and see into her mind to understand her, to understand any pain. But he was merely mortal, after all.

"Goodnight, little songbird."


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N the pain train is chugging now, but it won't last forever I promise!**

Christine tossed in her bed, willing herself to sleep. The wind had turned harsh, and it rattled her windowpanes. She felt an ache deep in her core, but drowned it in the image of Raoul's gentle smiles over champagne glasses at supper, his boyish laughter and pleasant ordinariness. Sighing and turning onto her side, she grasped the cool pillow with both hands and studied the streetlamps lacing the dark outline of her window in yellow light. Her head still hurt a little from the wine the night before, but she knew that wasn't what was keeping her awake at this hour. It was hard to not replay the scene in her mind.

"Lotte, do you understand what I am saying? I wish to court you, officially." His bright voice was smooth and soft as he reached across the table to grasp her hands. Christine had closed her eyes against the nervous beat of her heart, the cold weight in her stomach.

_This is what you wanted. Raoul can give you protection, can love you, can take care of you. _

Strangely, the words felt like some command from Madame Giry than her own conviction, but what did that matter? Meeting his earnest gaze, she had smiled and nodded.

Groaning, Christine rolled onto her back, blinking up at the black ceiling. Was she right in saying yes to him, to be bound to him by a promise of courtship? Raoul had chortled as he reminisced of their childhoods, as if reminding her of their shared past. It was true that he had existed in the golden years of her life, the ones filled with her father's violin and embrace, lost in an innocent love that mirrored her fairytale books. However, that girl in northern frocks with chocolates in her pockets had grown, and the woman she had become was not the type of creature the Vicomte described with such fondness. Christine squirmed with a sudden fear pricking up her spine. Did he not know that something dark and deep was swimming in her veins, inking her blood? It was burning just under her skin, unknown and yet so natural, longing for a release she did not understand. A venom of ambrosia had seeped into her from another world, and though she wouldn't dare to voice it, she knew it had come from Erik's world. It had been born from the darkness, from tales of halls lined with mirrors and dancing harem girls, from rope-slung necks and hypnotising amber eyes. From him.

Perhaps she had always been tainted, perhaps this blackened essence had always existed, waiting to be drawn out of her from its hidden place. Christine had truly realised its pull on the night of the masquerade ball, when they were together on the loveseat. She still felt herself flush from her brazenness under the influence, how she had practically tried to _undress _him! What must Erik think of her after such behaviour? But after putting aside her screaming modesty, she could remember how she had felt with him so close, how she had felt a blossom opening in her chest, how, when she placed her spinning head nearly on his shoulder, she was engulfed by a musk so richly masculine that it made her quiver…

What was this strange, foreign ache? It was so powerful, so commanding, syrupy in its luscious heaviness and yet with claws that drew blood on the inside. What was happening to her? It was as if some intrinsic part of herself was whispering in tongues, wishing to guide her but in agony from her deafened ears. It frightened her, it made her pulse rush even when she lay in bed. As Christine contemplated this, a thought drifted into her drowsy mind.

_How could Erik have caused me to feel this way? From his violence, has he hurt me on the inside? No, he cannot be blamed for something so wrong within me. He is my friend, after all. There is nothing he has done, but his world has marked me. For better or for worse, it is hard to know._

But such things did not matter now. She could suppress the surging fire until it died, she could become the girl Raoul spoke of. She had to at least try. This could be her only chance at a stable life, of marriage in sunlight and peace in her soul. In doing so, she knew one thing had to happen; she had to distance herself from Erik. The flames in her veins protested with tears, stabbing into her heart and making it harder to breathe. Christine scrunched her eyes tight, ignoring the pooling tears. Erik was her dearest friend, her maestro, her _angel_, how could she sever herself from him?

_If you want those golden years back, you must. It is for the best to do this gradually, so when the inevitable goodbye comes, it will hurt less. This is best for him, think of him. You cannot pretend life with a husband will allow his world. It will stop hurting. Oh God, Erik…_

After the masquerade, Erik knew an unnamed tension had seemed to slither between himself and Christine. It was caused by a strange shift in Christine, at first nothing noticeably catastrophic, yet still worrying enough to pinprick Erik's psyche long into the night. It had happened so gradually, so deceivingly, that for a week or two Erik merely questioned it as a product of his own insanity and irrational fear of her slipping away. It was when he had realised she had not stayed a night with him since the ball, even as autumn began to wither the trees and chill the air, that he knew something was dreadfully wrong. She just _had _go home, and no, she simply _couldn't_ stay for a game. Eventually she had completely withdrawn herself, simply descending for her lesson, taking his critiques professionally, and then leaving without another word. He could see the rings darkening the skin around her distant eyes, he could feel the heaviness in her shoulders and hear the dullness in her usually sunny voice…and yet he was helpless to do anything.

No, not entirely helpless. He had thoroughly questioned her several times regarding some vague concern for her health in that delirious bit of time where he thought they could talk as they had, but she had brushed off his queries with half-hearted explanations or dismissals. Could she not see how maddening it was, how it was so obvious something was wrong and that she was lying to him? She had been practically draped on him on the night of the masquerade, whispering into his ear with an intoxicated sweetness as she stared into him with a gaze full of promises. Dear God, what had happened? He was certain he had done something terrible, something unforgivable, and rather than confronting him she had closed herself. His nights were spent sifting through his memories, trying to pinpoint a frightened tremble of her fingers, or a flash of loathing in her eyes. Perhaps she had finally seen into his decrepit thoughts, caught a hint of his disgusting longing? For all that he could, Erik tried not to force her or unleash his outstanding temper, terrified it would drive her from him further. But the infernal girl made it so hard…

"I am _fine_ Erik, now let's review this phrase." There was a bitterness to her tone, an annoyance that was so unlike her as she ran her fingers over her brow and frowned at the music.

_Do not lose your temper, do not lose your temper, do not lose your temper…_

"My dear, you seem to have been unwell for some time now. You have not been yourself." He caressed her with his velvety voice, urging her to succumb to its warmth as she once had. Christine fidgeted, blinking rapidly but avoiding his eyes. A scowl corrupted her lovely features, and Erik felt his heart sink.

"How would you know what being myself is?" She spat, curling her fingernails into the varnished surface of the piano. He should have told her because he was her friend, because he _cared_ for her, damn her, and that the time they had spent together _had_ made him know her, truly know her. He knew her fears and her dreams, her joys and her sorrows. He knew she visited her father's grave every Sunday after church, that she liked her tea so hot it could scald, that she fed stray cats and that she hated stories with unhappy endings. He knew that if you stripped back her layers of holy light, inside was a scorching violet soul, a testimony to her unbridled spirit, flickering intensely with both beauty and strength. Lord help him, he would do anything she asked, he would hang himself on his own Punjab lasso if only she would tell him what was wrong. But fear bled into any sensible thought, poisoning his tongue and kindling his rage.

"Fine!" Erik bellowed with a strained edge, pounding his fist onto the piano and listening to the keys scream in protest. Christine closed her eyes, but no reaction passed across her face. She just looked tired.

After that she stopped coming altogether. He knew he was deluding himself, but still clinging to the hope she had fostered in him over blessed days and nights, he would wait in her dressing room, watch her in rehearsals. After she left the stage, Christine would slip out of the opera house. Erik knew she could feel him watching her, which probably accounted for how she had decided to disappear into thin air after exiting the doors. For all his horrid nightmares, he realised this was the one the devil had sent for him to live in for all eternity. The little bloom of tenderness that she had sowed in his chest by every smile and touch freely give, every laugh and every retort, shed its petals until it was just a skeleton. With its destruction, nothing could fill the emptiness caused by her absence.

_You fool, you idiot, you knew this would happen, you knew this would happen, you knew this would happen…but how I dreamed it would not._

As the days passed, his fantasies became more and more agitated, more gruesome, all to quench the bloodlust of the Phantom. As he paced frantically, shattering glasses as he overturned chairs and tables, he imagined appearing at Christine's home in the night, oh, if he was careful, he could carry her back before she even woke! They could talk properly then, she could explain this madness to him and it would all be resolved and as it once was. What if she would not? Well, if she preferred, he could drag her down to hell, screaming in fear of him and his damned soul. Yes, it is better she feared him. He would lock her within these walls, he would rip her clothes from her trembling body and devour her. He would hurt her, he would punish her, he would bruise her unblemished skin and bite her lips into crimson roses. He would crush her heart within his hands, he would tear her spirit apart.

_And then, you disgusting beast?_

And then…he would collapse. He would sob for her forgiveness, he would tend her wounds even though they would scar, he would dress her in beautiful laces and silks and try to return her mangled heart, revive her soul. He would play her the sweetest songs, tell her happy stories and love her tenderly. He would be gentle and pleasant like her Vicomte.

He would die because he would not escape how he had destroyed her.

_But she cannot just leave me! We are tethered together, does she not see that? She is mine! She is mine and I will not let her go. I will never let her go. She will make me understand, it will be mended. _

Half-dazed by red fury and delusional promise, Erik adjusted his wig and mask with shaking hands, grabbed hold of his cloak, and set off into the labyrinth of the night.


	15. Chapter 15

Christine huddled further into her cloak as she rounded the dimly lit street. Her heart was skipping wildly though she willed herself into bravery, alone in the night as she was. The avenue she turned onto was merely a back-trail, and she felt at least comforted by the fact that very few people knew of its existence. As far as she knew, she was the only one who frequented it. Rubbing her tired eyes and dreading the return to her sleepless bed, she avoided the piercing thoughts and churning in her stomach as the evening's events stabbed through her mind.

_I will surely say yes tomorrow, when I have rested somewhat and can think. I will say yes. This sickness can be chased away in the morning._

Suddenly, the shadows seemed to come alive around her, and just as a reflective surge of adrenaline coursed through her limbs, urging her into flight, her arm was in something's grasp, pulling her against a hard body. Christine used her stolen breath to attempt a scream, but a black-gloved hand clasped over her mouth as if sensing the action before it came to fruition. As she inhaled sharply, struggling hopelessly against the merciless grip, she was flooded by the scent of mahogany and ink.

"Hello, Christine."

The hold fell away effortlessly as she stumbled away from him, her eyes flashing in anger and residue fear. Erik, no it was the Phantom. The Opera Ghost. The white mask seemed to glow in the darkness, the perfect side of his face pulled into a haughty, aloof expression, his noble chin raised slightly as if he was considering her as he would a composition. But his eyes, oh his eyes, those aurelian eyes could set her skin into flames with how they seared into her. They looked practically inhuman, belonging to some predator with a hint of blood melting on its tongue. Christine had to tear her gaze away, lest terror cause her to tremble before him.

"What are you doing here Erik?" She was surprised by how calm and even her voice was despite the fear inside. No, she could not run. She had to face him as one would a wild animal; she had to hold her ground.

A humourless laugh echoed in the silence as he began to stalk around her, observing her with his terrible stare. She knew that he was lost in his rage, she could see it in his stiffened spine, his purposeful steps. Christine circled slowly on the spot, ensuring she could watch his every move.

"I supposed if my words could not draw answers from you, my actions would." He sneered, growling in contempt. Christine felt herself flush in momentary shame, dropping her head to hide behind her curls. She had handled this all atrociously, but God help her, she was finding it hard to think straight. What would have been the alternative? Tell him of Raoul, watch him bring destruction in a violent fit? She had intended to end her absence with a final goodbye and tell him, she truly had, but now, and after everything…

"I am sorry Erik, I do not know what you…"

"She denies it still! She could be cut open and still, she would deny." He mocked bitterly, his pace increasing so she had to whip her neck to follow him. A fast-moving shadow consuming her.

"What do you want from me?" This time her tone shook, her heart thrumming a frantic rhythm. The tempo quickened, his eyes like golden seas, ready to swallow her.

"I want to know why you have decided to neglect your lessons, to doom your career, to spite your teacher!" Erik's yell rattled inside her head, accusing and sharp with malice. She could feel the air burning as it vibrated around him, creating a shell of hurt and wrath.

"This is not how I wanted to tell you Erik…" A sob was breaking through, and oh God help her, she crumpled in on herself, her shoulders caving in defeat. He stopped to face her. Nothing had softened; indeed, it seemed her tears angered him further from the scowl on that handsome half-canvass.

"Tell me what, Christine? I would believe you could at least provide an explanation to this beast so obviously abhorrent to you."

"No, no you are not." She wept pleadingly, reaching out for him. What had she _done_? What was she going to do? The frightening darkness in her veins was pulsing at his presence, yearning to be enveloped by him and to never leave. Her mind was shrieking, tearing at her with a smiling Raoul, of the light which filled those long-ago memories when everything made sense. He took a step forward but left her quivering, outstretched hand empty.

"Tell me, Christine. What have I done? What can I do to ease your hatred of me?" Something had slipped into his voice amongst the savageness, something which curled into her heart in its hopefulness.

"Erik…"

"Return to me, my little songbird." His dulcet gentleness now seeped around her, clear and caressing as an angel's. He came closer until she could see nothing but the white shirt covering his chest, his embroidered waistcoat.

"Erik, I-"

"All will be forgiven. I will not be mad any longer, my dear, I promise. Just come back to me and everything will be as it was." His long musician's fingers were fondling a lone curl, his words low and enticing as if they were beckoning her with a honeyed warmth. That powerful swell just beneath her skin was humming, bursting.

_No, no, no…_

"Erik, please, you must listen." She rasped, suddenly feeling her vision blur and a limpness overtake her. She grasped his lapels desperately and his hands encased hers fervently, circling patterns over her white knuckles as if to soothe her. She felt some of the tension drift from his body as he peered down at her with…adoration. He seemed to become himself again in that caring gaze.

_Oh God, forgive me. Forgive me Erik._

"Tell me what is hurting you, dearest Christine. If it is me, if I have done something to offend you, let me make amends, I can make it better, I-"

"I am marrying Raoul."

Her words hung like gunpowder in the air after a fired shot. She gasped heavily, watching him with anguished, glassy eyes. He blinked, dropping her hands as if they were made of lead. His eyes were wide, stunned, and he took a half-step back. Slowly, his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly, quicker, deeper, until his whole body was undulating like a breathing fire. Suddenly, in a growl that grew into a horrible howl, he lunged towards her. Christine closed her eyes and threw her arms up, certain he was going to strike her, but his hand froze above them, trembling. She peeked up at him, and he simply stared wildly into her, shaking from restraint. A flood of explanations then poured from her lips, even as Erik turned his heaving back to her.

"I am sorry I did not tell you Erik, but I stopped coming because I know now that you were right; I cannot be with Raoul and take lessons from you. We exist in different worlds, and you are a man, and I am Raoul's fiancée, and I cannot keep secrets from him as his wife… dear God, I am _so sorry_ Erik." She whimpered, drawing in her arms to stop herself from falling apart completely. His silence only made her sob harder, and oh, _why did it hurt so much_?

"You…you will not leave me." It was not a question. Christine grew afraid amidst her sorrow, stepping away from him hesitantly.

"Erik-"

"You will not leave me!" He had seized her upper arms so brutally that she cried out. His golden eyes were feral, not belonging to him. Christine felt her throat constrict with terror.

"You will not hurt me. You will not hurt me…" She did not know if she was whispering the assurance to him or herself. He laughed hollowly, dragging her against him and forcing her face up to meet his vicious smile.

"I have killed, the blood of many men stains these hands. Do you I believe I would not kill you?" Erik hatefully purred, his fingers tracing the hollow of her neck, feeling her desperate heartbeat. Christine fought for her courage and met his stare with conviction.

"No. You are not a monster to me, Erik. You are thoughtful, you are kind, I know you are…"

His dark chuckle grew around her, and she shut her eyes against him as he leered over her.

"Such pretty lies, because you will leave me still. To waste away into the darkness, to die in my solitude…"

"Erik, please, it does not mean-"

"It means everything Christine! How can you fail to see that?" He barked, shaking her like a leaf in a gale. Christine felt her anger grow to match her fear, and her hands came up to his chest, bunching in the fabric of his shirt as she fixed him with a scowl.

"What other choice do I have? Raoul can offer me security, can offer me a stable life!"

"Will he let you sing?"

"He says he will!"

"Oh please Christine, the Vicomte will not have an opera tart for a wife!" He let go of her then, roughly and mockingly. Christine staggered backwards, but she did not run.

"Erik, do not be so cruel!"

Just as abruptly, he paced back towards her with a vengeance that reignited her horror, his perfect features twisting into a fearsomeness and ferocity that made her spine cold.

"Cruel? _Cruel_? _You_ have been the cruel one! I did not know you were capable of such savagery, you _ungrateful harlot_!"

"I am sorry Erik, oh God I am so sorry…" She wailed, not even caring about the names. Why hadn't she told him after the ball? Why hadn't she given him a reason, a warning before all this? She wanted to embrace him, wanted to atone for her sins in his arms. What had she _done_…

"What did you think this would do to me? Or did you even think of me while you were pressed up against your precious Vicomte?" His hold mimicked his words, pulling her harshly into him again, growling in her ear. Christine whimpered and struggled, pushing against his commanding figure. It was a distortion of the embrace she had craved, one marked in violence rather than affection. She flung her head back and found her fury, lip trembling.

"I thought…well I thought you could be happy for me! I nearly have the life I lost all those years ago. I know your opinion of Raoul, but I thought that you could at least _try_ to think of someone else's happiness!" Christine snapped, ignoring the steady stream of tears flooding down her cheeks. Erik pushed her away, snarling. He could only see red, his chest was inflamed with a pain he had never felt except for that inflicted on his skin. No, she had marked him on the inside, on the skin of his heart, and he could not think over the blinding white buzzing in his brain, the festering wound in his soul, if he had a soul, if she had saved him, if she could save him, if she would have stayed. And there she was, tears reflecting like glass prisms in the moonlight, and oh, he couldn't feel his pulse in his ears any longer, and he was certain he had died, that he had descended into the inferno, and…

"I cannot! I cannot share in your joy because it itself ends me! You must see how much I cherish you, how I would die for you, how I would rip this loathsome heart out and lay it at your feet for you to beat! And you do, and like a dog I follow you blindly because dear God, Christine I _love_ you. I love you as a man loves a woman, as a husband loves a wife, and I would worship you for as long as I lived if you gave yourself to me. Your presence in my life has made me blessed, and forgive me, I cannot bear to have you taken from me. But no, I am a devil, I am cursed, I am deformed, I am damned. You are an angel, and the worst of it is that I cannot even hate you for not wanting to defile yourself with me."

Silence entombed them, broken only by their ragged breaths. They stared into each other, equally stunned. Christine's eyes shone like the bluest skies, the kind he had never seen. A single tear slipped quietly down to her quivering chin, her lips parted in shock.

_Pity. She pities you. _

Before she could begin to exist again, he disappeared into the shadows as quickly as he had emerged from them. Christine could think of nothing, merely slumping to her knees, looking at the place he had stood. Everything had gone numb.

All she could do was bury her face in her shaking hands, and weep.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N I apologise in advance for the soppiness but I am a sop at heart and the pain train hurts too much :(**

Christine watched the leaves die and drift from the trees near her window. Raoul would be coming at any moment to whisk her away to a celebratory lunch, at which the news would be announced. A bluejay was ruffling its feathers in the bare branches, chirping cheerfully to itself. Faintly, she could glimpse her own ghostly reflection in the glass. The frost would be coming soon, why was the bird still here? Why hadn't it flown to lands of sunshine and warmth?

An eager series of knocks at the door, and Christine wandered away from the window to pick up her cloak. She pricked herself on the brooch's clasp, and for a moment, she stared at the little bead of crimson flowering on her fingertip. She could not feel the sting. She could not feel anything, except the cold sweat of endless nightmares which plagued her sleep. She pressed the pin against her palm until it drew a small puncture. Blood oozed like spilt wine, staining a narrow, trickling path to her wrist. Nothing. She might as well be made of marble.

She did not know how much time had passed since the night he had laid himself bare before her in fury and sadness. Two weeks, perhaps? Had it really been such a short time? Days bled together, a slow, hazy daze that she simply flitted through with his confession weighing on her heart until it finally suffocated and died within her ribcage. _Love_, he had_ loved_ her. All this time. Every discourse of his eye, every hesitant touch, every stroll home, every time he told her of a past in a distant land that pained him just to amuse her. Her carefully constructed room, the touching thought behind her necklace, escorting her to the ball despite the risk…how had she been so blind?

_Fear can turn to love…oh, God. _

Even as she still shut her eyes tight against the shock of it all, she felt sick as she found a part of her was not surprised. That part of her had known all along, had understood the longing behind his stare, how he looked upon her as something sacred. Had she known in some secret chasm of herself and simply not cared? No…it was not so simple. But nothing was simple anymore.

_Stop thinking of him, stop thinking of him, stop thinking of him, push it down, down, down…_

"Lotte! We must go, otherwise we will be late to the manor!" The bright bark of Raoul echoed on the other side of the door. Taking a handkerchief to her hand, Christine smiled as she had learnt to do onstage, and opened the door.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting Raoul." He met her with an annoyed sigh, but then eased his words with a forced optimism.

"Well, I suppose it is alright. We must hurry, come now." His hand took her wrist carelessly and led her out into the hallway and down the steps. Christine vaguely wondered if the handsome Raoul had noticed that his bride had turned completely to stone as he opened the carriage door for her in a flourish. He chattered to her in his amicable way, and she kept her Countess smile, all the while pushing her fingers onto her palm to try to ignite some ounce of sensation beneath the handkerchief. She tried not to blink, lest _his _dark silhouette sparked against her under-eyelids. When she had to sleep, however, she was unable to escape him. The dreams were almost always the same; she would find him in a pool of blood, a dagger plunged into his chest. Screaming and rushing to him, she would fall to her knees and take his head upon her lap, begging him to live as she clasped her hands over the grotesque wound. His eyes, those luminous yellow spheres, would find hers, piercing into her with their accusation. They would never forgive. Then, she would realise she was the one holding the dagger…

"Lotte, are you listening? On your left will be my uncle. Try not to say anything about your…profession to him. He has opinions about such things."

Christine nodded blankly, lost in the grey sky.

…..

She was silent at the table in the gilded dining room, surrounded by expressionless music and fine china and grand bouquets of greenhouse-grown flowers. The pleasant murmuring of wealth and scandal seemed to fade into one mass, indecipherable noise in Christine's mind. She sat upright with her hands folded in her lap, a transparent gem banded by gold weighing on her finger. She was a painted portrait of a girl who lived once, perhaps, but was long since dead.

"Pray, my dear, what do you see in your future at the opera house?" The greying old man by her side asked as he lifted his eyeglass to study her. A creamy, frosted cake was being brought out to celebrate. Just the sight of it made Christine's stomach heave.

"She will be retiring shortly, to become a Vicomtess of course! Imagine the private concerts you will have, uncle." Raoul interjected, ignoring Christine's incredulous, wide-eyed glare as the old man muttered something or other before burying his moustache in silky vanilla icing, appeased.

As they walked back to the carriage, the Vicomte keeping her on his arm, Christine found her voice out of pure shock and confusion.

"Raoul, you said I could sing if we married." She looked up at his vacantly smiling face with her brow furrowed. He patted her hand, giving her a thoughtful glance.

"I know, Lotte, but really you must have known that I never intended for you to stay at the opera? What wife of a Vicomte is a prima donna? Not to say we won't go! You can attend as many operas as you like and have the best seat in Box Five."

Christine found herself trembling as he led her further down the street. She felt ill, so very ill, a nauseating realisation slithering up her back.

_He never meant for me to sing. For all his praise, for all those roses…_

A throb, a whisper of anger stirred in her heart. Desperately, she urged to kindle it, to strike it into condemnations for his betrayal. But it was engulfed by her numbness, flickered for only a moment, and died. The future ahead of her felt masked in a fog, and she was sleepwalking into it with every step she took, helpless to stop. Dread was heavy in her stomach. This was the happy ending she had decided.

_Are you happy now?_

As they passed a bustling café, something slipped its way under the blanket of her dreary hopelessness. Christine's ears suddenly pricked at a strange accent, lilting and with gentle trills. She glanced down at some older men seated at a table outside, scratching their beards over a frayed board that was instantly recognisable.

_Nard, they are playing nard!_

Something within, stronger this time, made her relinquish Raoul's arm as a lightning-strike of electricity surged through her, hurrying towards them.

"Salam, man Christine hastam." She greeted the rather taken-aback gentlemen excitedly, slightly unaware of what she was doing and hoping her memory of the pronunciation was right. After frowning and muttering softly amongst themselves, they seemed to discern what she had tried to say and smiled gleefully up at her, dark eyes sparkling.

"We have not heard someone use our tongue in so long! Would you like to stay for a match?" One of them gestured to the board, the other pulling up a chair. Christine felt her pulse come back, her body slightly alive and her mind nearly breaking through the heavy paralysis, like sunrays piercing through clouds.

_Dear God, thank you for such a small, meaningful blessing! _

Just as she was ready to sit, Raoul had caught up and grabbed her arm, flustered and prickling with anger as he crinkled his nose at the two men.

"What in the world are you doing Christine?"

"Playing nard! Oh Raoul, it's a wonderful game, have a seat and I can teach it to you…" But before she could even finish, she was being pulled forcefully back towards the carriage, fingers digging into her arm.

"I don't know what just happened to you and your sensibility, but for God's sake Christine, get in before you embarrass me any further." He snapped gruffly, his usually smiling face balled up into a furious glower. He wasn't even looking at her.

"Raoul, I…"

"Oh, will you just be _quiet_!"

Christine stopped breathing, her mind still reeling from the Persian men, but they were quickly forgotten as the world seemed to stop on its axis. For a moment, she thought she was going to collapse.

It rang in her head, in her bones, down to her very soul.

"…_be quiet…"_

Then, the damn burst.

At those words, the powerful fire in her chest, the hearth she had soiled for weeks with her fear and repression, flared up like a match and exploded. She felt like a tidal wave was crashing into a desert, that thrumming violet light flooding her inside until it was roaring into her fingertips. She was set ablaze, and in its wake she found that voice within her, the one who had been screaming at her failure to listen, urging her to understand the truth, she finally could hear its desperate pleas. It was if she had learned to speak its mythic language in half a beat of her electrified, resurrected heart, and oh how it _sang _in relief! He was _there_, behind her eyes, an image of flashing swirls of colour she had long denied herself, and Christine could _feel_ his glorious tones hum like a piano string's vibration in her mind…

A hint of a laugh in that dulcet voice, that voice of an angel_…"You are forgiven, my dear. Turkish delights, after all, are many a saint's failing…" _Amber eyes wandering, a sincere frown, words low and meandering as he wove vivid, ancient places into her dreams. The sight of his full smile. The butterfly-light caress of her neck as he tenderly brushed a curl aside. The pain, the hidden longing behind his violence, the tears as she held his face in her hands. The pride, the adoration_…"You were simply wonderful, little songbird..." _Pressed against him as he held her in their waltz, his heartbeat so steady and strong even as hers felt as if it belonged to a hummingbird in flight. The hours in quiet company, sliding checkers and surrounded by his music, music so wonderful that it could make seraphs weep and demons shudder, playing for her until every fibre in her being melted. How he drew moonbeams out of her lungs, how he brought her to precipice of divine beauty and let her fly, to fly and never to fall! His dark features alight with deep feeling as he accompanied her home… _"You are worth more than any Vicomte."_

He had given her a voice, he had sculpted _her_ voice as a heavenly creator moulded life out of clay. Such a gift could not be taken, and she would never give it away.

_Erik! It has always been Erik! Do you see now? Do you see how you knew his love, but were so terrified of it that you were lost to its existence? Do you see how you tried to bury that throbbing desire in your blood, do you see how it has always been inside of you, simply dormant, waiting for him to guide it to your heart? _

Christine could not breathe properly. Raoul's exclamations blurred into the background as her mind, her body, her heart…was filled by Erik.

_Now can you see how your souls are made of the same essence, crafted of the same light, deepened with the same darkness? They are tethered together, different as night and day yet bounded by fire and song._

And yes, her soul too. She had given her soul to him long ago, she knew that now, but it was time to give him _all_ that she was. In return, she would have _everything_ that was him. Her spirit cooed in delight, yearning to escape into the air and find her Angel, to entwine in him until they could never be parted again.

"Christine, what the hell is wrong with you?"

With shaking fingers yet with a clarity she had not known for a long time, Christine eased the ring off her finger and placed it in his palm, closing his hand over it. Raoul stared at her hold in confusion, then realisation, anger and disbelief. She had stolen any words from him as she pressed her lips to his knuckle, not wanting to wait and let her cowardness take hold of her again.

"I am sorry, Raoul. I cannot marry you." She knew that the lost years she had pined for could never be found in this man. They could never be returned, no, but others could be created for the woman she was now, not the girl she once was.

"Christine…" Panic and hurt tore across her dear friend who had brought light to her childhood. He reached out to her, but she stepped out of his grasp, and as he opened his mouth to protest, shock knitting his brow, she put a hand to his lovely face.

"I could not make you happy, Raoul, and you could not make me happy. I now know I could never love you as you want, and I could never live as I want as your wife. I am sorry."

But she could not stay for his reply, his arguments, his persuasions. She had heard of enough of them by now. Instead, she ran, holding up the skirts of her dress as she hurried down the street filled with curiously watching people. Her heart was pounding, oh, she could feel it, a golden, sublime thrill in her limbs. There had been so much agony because of her, but the dagger-wound she had dealt would heal, it had to. She would stitch their lives back together.

Her feet knew the path to the opera house even as her thoughts were lost to the glimmer of Erik's eyes.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N so it turns out i will never be happy with this chapter so i'm just going to post it. in good news future smut should be on the way! **

Christine burst into her dressing room, ignoring the looks of the stagehands as they wondered what the prima donna was doing on her day off in such a hurry. Brushing the curls tumbling over her flushed face, she paced towards the mirror. With trembling hands, she fiddled for the secret hatch, and after hearing its reassuring click, she eased open the glassy surface slowly, exposing the blackness ahead. As she stepped in, she knew she could not turn back. It was now or never. Taking a deep inhale, she pushed herself into the darkness, letting it blanket her and consume her senses.

The tunnels were so familiar to her now, even without Erik's guiding hand, and she ran her fingertips along the cool, stone walls to navigate the sudden bends and sharp turns. Left, left, right, left, right… down, down, down. Her breath was racing, her footsteps echoing in the labyrinth. Soon she could taste the dampness in the musty air and knew she was nearing the lake. As she came out onto the ledge, the still, clear water beneath her feet, the boat floating gently on the other side, Christine couldn't help but stamp her foot. He must have heard an alarm by now, but for whatever reason she had not been attacked by his shadow.

_Well, no matter. I will come to you then Erik!_

Frantically, Christine began to flick open her bodice, taking off her shoes. Her skirts, the bustle, her petticoats, laying them all the ground in a careful pile. Unlacing her corset, she eyed the lake, shivering in her chemise and drawers. She had swum in wild, cold seas as a child, but even as she reminded herself of the icy waters of the north, she felt trepidation. The fire in her stomach burned brightly, however, smothering her fear. Filling up her lungs and sending a silent prayer, she leapt.

….

Erik lay sprawled upon the loveseat, hearing the alarm bells rattle insistently. He closed his eyes against the headache piercing through his skull, wishing he hadn't made them so loud.

_Let them find me, then. Let the Vicomte mount my head on a wall. What does it matter now?_

Sure, he may be able kill one or two, but a mob would rip him apart, limb from limb. One less demon on earth… God, and even he, should be thanking them. But as the bells began to die, as if they knew their warnings were not being heeded, he heard the unmistakable sound of soft feet padding into his home. What was that, with no yells of hatred and bloodlust? _Who_ was that? Sitting up, Erik fetched the Punjab lasso that had been dangling lazily off the velvet cushions. He pricked his ears, trying to locate and identify the noise, standing and approaching the door to his lair slowly. The rustle of the doorknob, the squeak of it turning and opening.

Ivory skin shining from tendrils of water dripping from an elegant neck, from the tip of a delicate nose, the ends of sooty eyelashes. Her slight form was wracked with shivers, the thin fabric of the chemise clinging to her gently sloping breasts, her inward waist and curved hips. Curls a clumped mass, her little bare feet white from the cold. Her eyes, oh, her eyes, they sparked like precious jewels, they burned,dear God, they _burned_.

Erik knew he was dreaming. Perhaps he had indulged in a rather generous administration of morphine, but what an image he had been blessed with! The flitting ghost, the sweet mirage took a step towards him as he stood still, lost in a trance at the sight. Those paling, bluish lips trembled as she inched into his chest, shaking violently, until a wet cheek was laid over his pounding heart. Dumbstruck, Erik slowly touched the crest of her head, reality beginning to shed light into his mind. She _was _here. It was Christine. She was here.

"E-Erik, I'm so c-cold." The little quivering voice made him abandon his dizzying, racing thoughts which screamed to caress her, to hurt her, to lock her away, to shriek at her to leave. As she melted further into him, he realised truly how cold she was, an iciness so brutal it even was searing his own frigid skin underneath his dampening clothes. Rationality pricked into his delirium. Had she…swum the lake?

_You need to get her warm. Forget everything else. You need to get her warm._

Tearing his mind away from his endless questions, his rage and shameful longing and the exposure of having his horrid face to her, he knelt swiftly and bundled her delicate, shuddering body into his arms. Barely conscious of what was happening, he carried her to the bathroom, propping her up on the tiled floor as he quickly turned on the hot water, flooding the porcelain tub and filling the small room with steam. His hands were shaking, focusing on every precise action intently as to not slip under the crimson shock, the bubbling tension pulsing in his throat. When the bath was full of warm water, warm enough to bring colour back to her skin but not enough to sting her numb flesh, he rose and stood over the huddled Christine.

"Stand." It was a curt order. She wobbled to her feet, grasping her arms tight around her. He avoided her constant gaze, suddenly unsure of what to do. She was undoubtably waiting for him to leave, the letch that he was, but something in those sapphire eyes had transfixed him when he succumbed to their stare. With a tremble, though never breaking his eye, she unwound her arms.

"Erik…" She called quietly, reaching out a pale hand to him. But in that sacred second, as startled as a wild animal, he darted from the bathroom in a sudden flurry, leaving Christine alone in a silence only disturbed by the random drips of the bathtub faucet.

Erik paced in the living room, unable to still the shake in his bones and white wasps of hysteria swarming in his chest. He could hear the faint gurgle of the water being drained. His head was spinning. Had she come back to mock him with an official goodbye? Why had the foolish girl _swum the lake _just to have an audience with him? Why had she pressed her lovely face against him, let him carry her like a bride, called his name? Was her cruelty truly so severe? She did not have the excuse of ignorance now, no, she knew what these temptations would do to him!

Christine emerged, tightly wrapped in a white robe. Her cheeks had colour once again, a bright flush that Erik blamed on the steam. That warm, earnest look in her eyes shone even brighter. All he could see was her cowering from him in the dark street, struggling in revulsion against him. He swallowed hard and pushed the image from his mind.

Neither knew what to say first, Christine fiddling with her hands.

_How to say it? How to explain it to him? Where to start without him losing his temper?_

"Why do you torment me like this?"

Christine's gaze snapped up to his in pain but found that he was revealing nothing, lips pulled into a neutral frown. She had thought that he might have put on his mask and wig while she was in the bath, but instead he was baring his distortions to her, perhaps out of spite than trust. Christine walked to him pleadingly, reaching out again, but he simply snarled and turned, stalking away.

"Erik, please, I-"

"Have you come here to bid a final goodbye to your pathetic old maestro?" It hinted with something painful, and Christine grimaced.

"No, I-"

"Have you come here to tempt me? To test my restraint? Because Christine, I do not think there is much of that left." He growled menacingly, approaching her slowly with considered, daunting steps. Despite the venom vibrating from his words, Christine found she could not be afraid of him. He did not wait for her reply, instead seizing her by the upper arms, drawing her against his hard, shaking form. His sinewy hands trailed up her spine like spiders, his breath hot as he stooped to force his face into the bed of curls by her neck. She dared not move, prey to his rage as she was. Knowing that she could not stop the anguish rolling off him until he had said and done what he needed, she simply let her eyes flutter close and savoured the feeling of his closeness.

"I could destroy you. I could…I could…" He felt his anger beginning to give way to a hopeless melancholy. She was so warm, her skin smelling so sweet as he pressed his horridness into that beautiful spot by her clavicle. Maybe he could just exist here, never to face her terrified eyes or feel the tremor of disgust in her delicate body. Alas, he _could_ feel it. He pulled away, but suddenly little hands flew up to hold the back of his head, urging him to stay.

"Destroy me then. Touch me, ruin me, love me." She whispered desperately into his ear with a boldness she had not known, unshed tears in her voice, her fingers lacing into the fine strands of his hair. Erik was trembling in her arms, wordless except for a sharp gasp of breath she felt against her throat. She stroked his now tensed back soothingly, though her hold fell away as he hesitantly withdrew himself, bending to maintain her eye as he searched her for meaning. She had to give him an answer. Closing the small distance between them, Christine enveloped her hands around his tortured face and, treasuring the flicker in her heart, she leant up to press her lips against his.

He was motionless as she gently persuaded his unmoving mouth with soft kisses, the sensation making her blood hum in contentment. It was strange and foreign yet so fundamentally natural, and there was something lovely in how his billowed lips felt, so tender and tasting of rich wine and an intriguing cinnamon muskiness that must be purely Erik. Dizzy with delight at such a thought, Christine smiled against his mouth and peeked up to see his golden eyes wide and filled with a paralysing shock. Abandoning his frozen lips, she kissed carefully up onto his bloated cupid's bow, his marred cheek, the warped skin of his temple and forehead. Every contortion of flesh, every glassy scar, not ceasing even as hot tears suddenly struck her butterfly-light path.

"Christine…" He croaked, those exquisite aurelian eyes staring blindly into her, not quite seeing anything. Pride and questions were forgotten as he crumbled to pieces under her lips.

"Erik…" She cooed in reply, but she was robbed of further words by his mouth abruptly crushing to hers in a fumbling, delirious kiss, as if he was trying to drink her in and consume her. Christine flung her arms around his neck, letting him overwhelm her. Oh, dear God, her fairytales hadn't mentioned how it _felt, _how his unsure though caressing lips pulled breath out of her lungs and made her chest sing. Panting, he lay his forehead against hers, seeking an unknown permission in her hazy eyes. When he believed he had found it, he dipped to place reverent kisses along the column of her throat, making Christine shiver in delight. A secret part of her was thrumming, a music inside her starting to tune itself to his.

"Why… why are you…" He tried to rasp, unable to form coherent thoughts as he was intoxicated by the delicious taste of her skin, of how she was melting in his arms, his lips still burning. As if in a reminder, he claimed her mouth again in another frenzied kiss, those supple lips so soft and yielding. How could this be happening? How could she not be a figment of a dream? His body seemed to have taken over, leaving his mind reeling with every impulsive touch.

"Forgive me, Erik. Please, forgive me for it all." She breathed once they had parted, blinking up at him through tears with intense sincerity and remorse. Erik was sure he had stopped breathing, though he could feel his bursting heart, flooded with passion and yearning for hope. A shudder ran down his spine, his chest aching.

_You do not know what she means, you do not know what she wants, what she truly wants…she could be tricking you, she could be using you…oh, but she kissed me, and God, I have never…but no, she could simply run back to her Vicomte and leave you so that your wounds never heal, so that she kills you for certain with her façade. She could be mocking you, she could bring a knife down into your foul flesh…but oh, dear God, what if I let her? What if, just now, I could forget? _

"_Ange_…" She soothed sadly, stroking her fingers along his mangled cheek. His eyes were closed in conflict, his body rigid against her. It was only her gentle touch that urged his tongue despite a screeching voice within willing him to not ask, to just pull her against him and let go. It would be so easy to let go…

"What does this mean? Christine, why have you come? If you leave me again, I…" He could not think of what he would do if she left him after this, lest his rage taint the beautiful cloud of tenderness and desire that had wrapped itself tightly around them. He could only grasp her hands in his, holding them to his chest. He had to know. If he did not ask, he would die when he inevitably found himself alone in the darkness. She would leave, yes, she would leave. And what could he do? Keep her here against her will? No, he never could. She was the only person who he could not bear to hate him. Oh please, he wished she did not hate him. Oh God, he wished this all might mean…something. Christine's eyes were bright with tears, and he watched in self-loathing as they fell onto her perfect, blushing cheeks.

"Erik, I _love _you. I might have always loved you. I just wished I had not _hurt_ you so much." Her whimpered words soon caved into heaving sobs, arms winding around her middle as she felt a great release of the soul overtake her. She felt all the sorrow she had suffered and brought upon him, the wasted love, all the scars she had seared upon her skin and his. It crashed upon her and she could not breathe through the wave, but even as she felt her knees give way a strong grip was whisking her into the air, light as a feather, and taking her against a strangely warm chest. As he sat them on the loveseat, enveloping her up against him, trembling even with his embrace so tight, Christine felt her heart steady and release its weight. Curling up into him, she sighed heavily through the lingering tears. She could live in eternity here.

"My Christine, my songbird…" Erik whispered though his limbs shook, residue tears of his own falling into her curls. It all felt so otherwordly, but the comforting weight of her on him with her little face burrowed into his shirt, began to cement the reality. He could feel the curves and contours of her beautiful body through the robe, but nothing could be stirred within his core through the suffocating delirium. Her words, after long seconds, finally dealt their impact.

"_I love you…"_

Had anyone ever said those cherished three words she had confessed to him? Had anyone sworn their devotion to him, the demonic carcass that he was? He had read them in epic romances, he had heard them drawled by drunken stage-hands to half-naked women. He had heard them uttered in many languages, had heard them echoed in rhapsody or shredded with a silent reply. And now, they were being spoken to _him _by a weeping angel in his arms.

But even as Erik began to feel his soul, that wretched, beaten down soul that he had long thought was non-existent or dead, sing in a pure ecstasy he had never known, a darker voice drowned it.

_She does not mean it. How could she love such a grotesque beast? She is saying it to appease you, she is saying it so she can kill you easier, or worse…or worse, you have made her love you. You have tainted her heart. You have cursed an angel to fall to hell so you can consume her._

His arms began to hesitantly withdraw, but Christine was quick to sense his fears. Sitting up and hands moulded around his face, she leant to gift the lightest of kisses onto his forehead. She knew he was listening to something painful and angry within him, she could tell by the way his eyes had scrunched close, his brow twitching. It was a sight she had caught many glimpses of.

"Erik, listen to me. I am not marrying Raoul, I cannot because my heart is yours. I _love_ you Erik, please, I swear it on my father's grave. I have not come to hurt you, I have only come to love you. I will not hurt you, never again, please _ange._" She promised breathlessly but with a desperate conviction, still holding his face. Erik's eyes opened to stare into hers, a reservation blanketing the fiery passion swimming in those golden pools.

"You will leave." It was not a question. He could not look at her small, hopeful smile, feeling sick with it all, the shock and suddenness, and with the aversion of his eyes the smile fell. Her hands dropped slowly to fidget, and then wrapped around herself self-consciously. A distance seemed to grow between them. The air became heavy.

"Unless…your feelings have changed." It was said in a voice so quiet and heartbroken that Erik's screaming inner dialogue was immediately shattered. Almost in a spasm, he pulled her crushingly into his arms and held her steadfast, as close as he could until he was certain they had all but melded into each other. He cherished the little squeak she gave in surprise, the way she gripped his shirt with her fingers, how she sighed in such happiness as he laced his hands through her silken hair. It was if a floodgate had opened and washed away the sting in his heart. This was _his _Christine, his sweet angel, the one who had time and time again healed jagged and torn parts of him with her honest empathy, her understanding smile and never-ending warmth. She was gentle evenings and she was soft sunshine. She was here in his arms, giving herself to him. She _loved _him…

"I will stay by your side always,_ always_, if what you say is true. Oh, Christine, say it is true…"

"It's true. It's true. I love you Erik, I love you, I love you." She swore again and again, into his chest, into his neck, into his ear as she pressed her cheek to his. There was so much that needed to be said between them, but words were lost when Erik claimed her lips, his grip inadvertently tightening with a tremble in her hair, pouring out every apology, every fallen tear, every secret joy that they now could share. And, like being caught in a blissful current, Christine let the tide take her out to sea…


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N hello! i am so sorry for not updating in forever, i hope everyone is safe. here is some more angst because i'm having trouble writing and so i'm not very happy with this little bit but anyway. fluffiness and smut on the way i swear! thanks for reading!**

Erik did not know how long it had been before Christine fell asleep. Words had been abandoned quite some time before, lost between her soft explanations, his pained apologies, her crooning, merciful 'Erik…'. He stroked her hair from the crown of her head, the other hand on her hip to keep her to him as she slowly stretched out her gorgeous, lithe body. Sighing contently, she kept her face in his shoulder as she blinked once, then twice, and then fluttered her eyes close. He simply held her as he felt her muscles go slack, the exposed half of her sleeping face looking so…peaceful. With the lightest of touches, he traced the dark ring under her feathery eyelashes, frowning. He hoped she would get some rest now.

Erik's mind ticked dully like something had dampened its usual fever, filling it with something slow and sweet. It was an odd feeling but rather nice, he decided. It prevented the shrill voices within to break through, to prick his psyche with doubt. Oh, but there was doubt. He had a passing thought of carrying her to the bedroom, so she was more comfortable, but dismissed it with the excuse of not wanting to risk waking her. Truthfully, it was because the bedroom offered two paths he did not want to walk; either he would have to leave, or he would have to stay with her. The former was unthinkable, no, he was not going to let her out of his sight lest she vanished, lest this all was indeed a dream all along. His hold on her tightened at the mere idea, but the liquid warmth in his chest made it hard for the pain to sharpen. The second path, despite its innocence, was still not something he was sure his pious Christine would take kindly to…

No, it was better just to stay here, wrapped up in each other. Erik's back felt a bit sore, but his head had fallen back against a plush cushion and so, after a few quiet hours, despite it all, he had slipped into the oblivion as well. It was a dreamless sleep, so he only realised he had drifted when gentle kisses were waking him, on his face, his neck, his lips, like little sparks. His golden eyes opened slowly to be met with a blushing, grinning Christine, all warm and dewy in his arms.

"Hello." She chirped, giddy and giggly and positively beautiful. Erik couldn't stop the smile spreading lazily across his face as she snuggled into the crook of his neck, humming in drowsy delight.

"Hello, my dear." He purred, voice still gravely with sleep.

"You fell asleep." She observed in amusement, muffled against his skin. His fingers absently toyed with a curl.

"Mhm."

_And I did not wake screaming…what did I ever do to allow heaven to bless me with this?_

"Oh, I don't want to go…" Christine whined gently, and Erik felt a twitch of panic. His hands fisted into her hair suddenly, making her yelp slightly in surprise as he kept her there, shakily drawing breaths. Christine could feel his pulse pounding under the skin of his throat, under her lips.

"Erik?" She rasped in concern.

"…Go?" He finally croaked, and Christine sighed in understanding. Nuzzling up his neck and peppering his twisted cheekbone with more kisses, she felt him begin to relax.

"I am this opera's prima donna after all, aren't I?" She teased lightly and felt him go stiff.

"Oh, yes, of course, well…" He cleared his throat in embarrassment, drawing his arms back. She, of course, would not accept that for a moment and so simply dived into his chest further, murmuring nonsense happily. Erik tried to clutch those precious few seconds and lock them away in his memory. He wanted to remember the scent of rosewater on her skin, every little jerk of her strong legs, the sweetness in her voice. But then she slipped from his arms, eyes wide and hands flailing as she remembered the location of her clothing, and the moment ended.

….

They stood in the doorway of her mirror, Erik having fetched her clothes from the dampness. He had to repress a violent surge of self-loathing as he realised he had indeed made her _swim the lake _just to see him, but it was forgotten with the rest of his thoughts when she had thanked him with a cheery kiss on his marred cheek.

"I will be here after rehearsals." She assured him, but it felt tacky on her tongue. For so long she had avoided him, abandoned him, what made her believe that he trusted her now? She felt the steely grip on her hand. His golden eyes burned, piercing her.

"I will be here. Waiting." He promised, and she was certain there was a curl of warning, of incredulousness. It made Christine's chest pang in shame, and he must have seen it on her face because he dropped his hold, frowning in concern.

_It does not matter, it really does not matter, I will prove it to him._

She crossed the threshold one more time to encase his face with her hands, press herself carefully against his chest, and lay a reverent kiss on his lips. Still slightly stunned by the whole notion of kissing, Erik froze just long enough for Christine to step back through the mirror, squeeze his hand, and smile gloriously. When the mirror closed, Erik was reminded that she would indeed be the death of him.

Erik's mind was reeling, a tangled mess of rapid hot-fury and electric delight, barely able to comprehend all that had happened over the space of hours. He could still smell her on the collar of his shirt, on his very horrid skin, and he could still feel where her dear body had been pressed into him, where her face had been nuzzled and her fingers clutching. He internally repeated her request from so long ago as he paced frantically below, that he not follow her, watch her and listen to her, but he could not help it, oh God, he could not help just staying here, going half-mad with her lingering shadow and the fear of her vanishing suddenly, as if she had been a spectre after all. Locating his mask and wig which had been abandoned some days before, he guised himself as the Phantom he had almost forgotten he was and slipped into the Opera's hidden delves.

Christine felt as if she had suddenly awakened from a nightmare. The Opera looked real again, the sight of the stage drew happy butterflies of familiarity in her belly and the sound of her voice seemed like it was not underwater any longer. Of course, this came with the realisation that she was embarrassingly out of practice, having neglected her lessons, and she flushed a rather bright crimson at the sound of one particular note she produced at the top of the aria. However, after reassuring Reyer that her practice would be more rigorous than ever after this spell of disruption and ignoring Carlotta's snide remarks, it did feel _wonderful _to hear her voice again, to remember it existed after so long. Meg cast her a side glance of both happiness and bewilderment, eyes flickering to her bare finger.

This brief joy was promptly shattered by a positively enraged Vicomte de Chagny bursting into the dimly-lit house.

Christine felt her gut tighten and her limbs become heavy with dread as she caught the sight of his glaring blue eyes, his stride dangerous as it stripped down the aisle towards the stage. The company went silent, all stares falling onto Christine.

"I hate to interrupt, but I demand an audience with Mademoiselle Daaé immediately." A snipped venom laced his words, and after a few weak complaints from Reyer, Christine felt the movement of the cast filing out. Her heart began to hammer, flooding her ears, but then she felt a hand grasp hers and squeeze. Meg's reassuring smile softened the ache in Christine's chest, and Madame Giry's unimpressed frown as she watched Raoul ascend the stairs straightened her spine. Although this was something she had to face herself, it was easier to be brave when she was not alone.

The Vicomte scowled as he observed the three women, and for half a second Christine realised that his perfect face could twist up so hatefully that it was indeed far uglier than any distorted one…

"Alone, Christine?" He snarled in annoyance, thinly hiding the hurt, but Christine found herself shaking her head.

"Say what you have come to say Raoul. I am sorry, but I will tell you now that it will change nothing."

Raoul's scowl deepened, almost seething. "I feel you owe me an explanation for whatever lapse occurred in you yesterday."

Christine's temper bristled, and after being asleep for so long, it rushed to her heart powerfully. Pity was beginning to wane as she raised her chin, eyes narrowing. Despite the clarity in her words, there was an unmistakeable bite. "I meant what I said. I am truly sorry."

Raoul's face reddened, flailing his hands up. "Really? Is this all really because I did not want a prima donna for a wife? For God's sake Christine, you so _selfish_! And what is more-"

"I am in love with someone else."

The air stilled, three stunned gazes snapping to her even as she stared coldly into the Vicomte. A breath of electric silence.

"You, you what?" Raoul choked, his resolve evaporating. Christine's usually bright eyes had turned to steel.

_Be strong. This is a fight you must face. _

"I am in love with someone else." She repeated evenly with the curt professionalism her occupation demanded, despite how he had condemned it, belittled it. Raoul's shock was beginning to simmer back into anger, but Madame Giry was quick to put an end to it.

"I believe there is no further reason for the Vicomte to stay any longer, unless he has business to attend to. If that is the case, I suggest you seek out André and Firmin." With a stern nod, Madame Giry bid farewell to the Vicomte, flicking her sharp eye to Christine before exiting the stage. Thankfully, Raoul seemed still too paralysed to spurt out anything further as Meg led her out, and Christine let out the breath she didn't even realise she was holding.

Once alone in the Opera's corridors, Meg poured out countless breathless questions even as Madame Giry attempted to hush her, swallowing her own obvious surprise. However, they both melted into the background as Christine felt the time slipping, her head still spinning and her veins thrumming in panic as she thought of her promise, of Erik waiting for her, not knowing if she would return. Promising dizzily to explain everything soon, Christine couldn't help but dash past them towards her dressing room.

Relief flooded her as she found a vaguely bored-looking Erik, fiddling with his pocketwatch. However, in the moment in which he looked up to her, Christine saw in those golden pools that he had heard everything.

"Hello, my dear." His tone was unreadable, blanketing any emotion. With his mask and wig and impeccable suit back in place, it was impossible to discern any flicker of sentiment that he had not carefully crafted.

"Erik…" She began, reaching out to him, but his commanding figure pivoted back towards the mirror.

"You are out of practice, I am afraid. We must commence your lessons immediately." He noted airily, barely glancing back over his shoulder. Christine's distress sharpened, and she finally managed to lock both her hands around his sinewy one in earnest. He was trembling.

"Erik, please." She pleaded, and felt his grip tighten around hers. He still didn't meet her gaze.

"Christine, let us go, please. I do not want to do anything you will not forgive me for." He growled lowly, though she could feel that the anger burning behind his eyes, burning just under his skin, was not directed at her. She nodded silently, sadly, before following him down into the quiet darkness.

A reserved air had seeped in around them by the time they began the lesson, suffocating and tense. Christine could feel him sinking into the Phantom once again, aloof and opaque, distant and cold, as he led her through his now immaculate home, devoid of the broken furniture and shattered glass she had seen when she had come to him. He had insisted on teaching her that afternoon, huffing about her poor breath and lack of chord closure as he pounded on the piano with shaking fists and startling eyes, and ever-patient, Christine let him carry it out, let him gather his thoughts in this way, trying her best to sing through his anger. However, the swell of bubbling blackness was beginning to crash between them, his comments becoming cruel and his music soul-shattering.

"To think you neglected your gift like this, it is truly abhorrent." He snarled, his words landing like arrows that desired to pierce skin. Christine's heart tightened in her ribs in hurt and frustration, staring brokenly at the heaving expanse of his back. She sighed wearily, realising that so much had still been left unspoken.

"You still resent me, don't you?" It was barely above a whisper, but it rang through Erik's head like the toll of a bell. He scrunched his eyes close, his shoulders caving as the rage was washed away into sorrow and guilt.

_You are beast, you have already ruined her love. _

"No. No, I, Christine…"

"I know… I know this will take time. I know it will take time for you to trust me again, but I want you to know that I fought for this. I-I fought for you Erik, I truly did." He could hear the plea in her voice though she tried to hide it, and he could picture the quiver in her chin, the little scrunch between her brows. He knew that she had fought for him, indeed he had witnessed it, and though it had made him burst with love and pride, something melancholic had tinged it. He exhaled slowly, trying to calm the waves of self-hatred just long enough so he could say what had been shrieking through his mind.

"I cannot help but think how much simpler your life would have been if you had married him. You _should_ have married him, Christine. This, your voice, it is truly a gift but…it is secondary to your happiness. It always has been, I have just been too selfish to admit it." His powerful voice was so quiet, so timid. Christine blinked through the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

"Do you truly believe I would have been happy?"

"Do you truly believe you will be happy… with me?" Erik stroked the tops of the keys absently, self-consciously, as if dreading her answer.

"You have brought me more happiness than I ever thought possible to feel again."

He had to meet her fierce eyes then. They were firm with honesty, though glassy with pain. So much harshness in the space of a day that she had weathered, and he had not comforted her as lovers were meant to, no, he had torn at her heart further. Shame pricked his skin, though it was soon overpowered by the tenderness of her gentle smile, how she drifted tentatively towards him, sensing he had returned to her.

"I am sorry, Christine."

She took a seat next to him on the piano bench, folding her hands in her lap and staring contemplatively at the keys. Slowly, she lifted her delicate hand to play a few notes of a familiar tune he couldn't place.

"Will you take it off now?"

He simply nodded, removing the wig and then the mask, placing them on the piano's glossy top. Christine grinned fondly, scooting close to place a lingering kiss on his bare brow.

"There you are, my Erik."

Suddenly, something fragile yet deeply forceful flooded Erik, starting in the pit of his stomach, rising to grip his heart and constrict his throat. All that had happened between them, those short years in the eternity which had been his life, had crashed into his soul until it had been breathed back to life, blooming fire-red and emerald green and yearning to be entombed by the violet love of the angel beside him. The remnants of his distrust, his guardedness and doubt fell away in a moment as if some great exorcism had swept his veins clean and clear. Twitching uncontrollably, he stumbled to his feet, shakily pulling down his waistcoat as he was accustom to despite the earthquake within. He could barely see through the grey tears pooling in his eyes before Christine seized him in a crushing embrace.

"Christine…"

"Shhh, _älskling_. Let us be quiet now."

And he crumpled, his arms encircling around her little body, because really, she was _so small_, and so strong, and he bent to bury his face into the crook of her neck as he sobbed softly. Some time passed though they took no notice, and as she soothingly traced his spine, he whispered against the shell of her ear despite what she had said.

"I love you, Christine."

But the broken silence was soon forgotten as her eyes fluttered close, brushing her lips delicately to his. He tasted of tears and lime tea, and, as the kiss deepened, a darkness that had been all at once engulfed in warm, bright light.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: a consistent tone? description that isn't over-the-top? reasonable chapter length? i don't know her.**

**thanks for reading!**

**WARNING: SMUT **

Time was a fickle but merciful thing as it melted the distance between Christine and Erik. For both their sakes, they first fell back into the routine of lessons they had before it all, before the fragile edge they had been clinging to fell from under them and they had been forced to build something new in the ruins. The rot of autumn was beginning to fade into the iciness of winter, but tender warmth was beginning to blossom despite it. Despite it all, the cold, the hurt, the uncertainty, something soft and gentle flowered its way into the sunshine, different in colour but same in essence to another rose that had been crushed so violently.

"You are almost there, my dear. Perhaps we should leave it be for the night." He suggested timidly from the piano, his usual command softened by his heart that wished only to make her smile again.

_My God, you are pathetic. _

"I want it to be perfect, Erik. Let me try one more time." She insisted with determination, eyebrows scrunched as she studied the music. Thankfully for his heart, she smiled wonderfully at him, and unfortunately for his heart, she let her hand drop onto his shoulder, curls falling to tickle his neck as she leant to kiss his twisted cheek.

Christine loved fiercely, Erik soon realised, and with complete abandon. She had given her heart to him, and with the spirit he so adored she kissed him, caressed him, embraced him, as if they had been lovers since creation, since Eden. It was as beautiful as it was terrifying. He dared not tell her how he craved her touch though he jumped at any freely given, that the space he kept between them was because he was a coward.

_Frightened by her love, what is wrong with you? What are you so afraid of?_

Oh, but _she_ knew, she knew. Christine knew he was afraid of the unknown entity that was love, sincere and true, the foreignness of it. It was a stranger to him, and he flinched at its open, forgiving arms. Erik was painfully aware at the way she hid her wounded gaze, but, because she was a saint on earth, she didn't give voice to the way he darted to the kitchen to fetch tea the moment she slid onto the piano bench, or how he seated across from her in his armchair as they talked of nothing and everything until Christine had to sleep. Her company was enough for now, _having her here _was almost too much to bear, to remember at times with an intensity that overwhelmed Erik. However, every night, when she would get up and yawn, stretching and murmuring about retiring to bed, she would wander effortlessly over to him, bend down and wrap her arms about his neck. Sleepily, sweetly, she kissed him, her lips so gentle and chaste that it nearly made Erik cry the first fateful night that she did it. One more kiss to his forehead, a whisper of 'goodnight' with doe eyes, and then she would drift down the hallway to her bedroom.

Time was a fickle but gentle thing as it dissolved the space between Christine and Erik. Odd little stories slipped into late night silences…

"It is true! So, I went to the kitchen and got a pair of scissors and cut all my hair off. Short, like a boy."

"In heaven's name, why?"

"The governess had told me that young ladies did not act that way at the dining table, so I thought I best be a boy then and eat all I wanted."

"My God Christine, you are a bizarre girl."

Riddles crept over the rims of mulled wine…

"Try this one then. 'Only one colour but not one size. Stuck at the bottom yet easily flies. Present in the sun but not in the rain, doing no harm and feeling no pain.'"

"I am certain I can solve this one! 'Only one colour but not one size'…a cloud?"

"Clouds can be grey or white or very dark, can they not? Besides, clouds are most definitely present in the rain."

"Alright then, what about…just, well…"

"Do you give up, my dear?"

"Only because this wine has gone to my head, which I suspect you know when giving me these damn riddles."

"Language, Christine."

"How is the answer 'language'?"

"No, you dear girl… the answer is a shadow."

"Oh. _Oh_. How wonderful riddles are! Tell me another one, I am certain I will get it this time."

And touches danced over skin, hesitant at first, a whisper of the mad hunger that ached in their veins that first night they found each other. A delicate brush over her hand, a caress of a curl, a butterfly-light kiss on her temple. Christine didn't dare bring attention to the way he was returning to her, the tenderness in all brief moments he gave. It became less rare. It slowly, oh, ever so slowly, became gentle and warm and familiar, the kiss they would share in her mirror, the hand which ghosted around her waist as he read over her music, the stoke of his fingers on the crest of her head as he passed by the loveseat to absently search the bookshelf. She became emboldened, squeezing his hand in both of hers, kissing his knuckles, holding him tightly and urgently to her every time before she left his home.

He did not know that she feared he would slip away too.

Erik grew to understand the caresses, expect them, revel in it. They dampened his rage and sorrow until misery lay deep and sedated in his stomach, pricking often but unwilling to completely swell and drown him. And so, one night, as she kissed him goodnight, he kissed her back. Thoroughly, powerfully, strong hands encasing her face as he poured himself into her, letting his heart open and unfurl to touch her own. They knelt together on the floor a long time after, between more desperate kisses and grazes of fingertips over eyelids, cupid's bows, cheekbones and throats. She smiled and wept silently. His glorious golden eyes softened and he recorded every detail of her face with his lips.

Time was a fickle but loving thing as it wove Christine and Erik together.

….

"Are you _sure _that is the move you wish to make?"

"My dear, I am afraid your attempts to make me question my strategy are failing."

"I am simply giving you an honest chance to retract a bad play, that is all."

It was hard not to smirk at her feigned nonchalance as she sipped at her tea, studying the board through her sooty lashes. Erik was in his armchair, barely conscious of the game as he thought ahead to the moment where he would win, and she would grumble and fuss and then invariably wander over to perch herself upon his lap, nuzzle her nose up against his neck and grumble some more, until, at least, he had peppered her pretty pouting face with kisses and crooned about how he simply had luck on his side. Curling up her legs, she'd talk some nonsense between yawns and then finally drift off, leaving him with a precious, wonderful hour or two of just holding her, of just feeling her warmth, of feeling her peaceful breaths on his skin before he carried her to bed. He'd quietly busy himself pointlessly in her room for just a little while longer, frowning at her hairbrush, should he get her a new one? Her perfume bottles were running low, perhaps he would try to find even sweeter ones, but then, surely nothing could be as intoxicating as the pure scent of Christine. He would spend the remainder of the night by his organ, creating music that was marked with beauty without violence, because this was a brief spell of painlessness that had to be milked, sapped, enjoyed for all it was worth.

Winter was cold and sharp, and Christine indeed carried the heavy blanket with her like a cloak before settling onto Erik with a mumble of annoyance. Erik had to sigh at the welcome weight of her, his arms wrapping all around her over the blanket, pressing her tight against him. He did not feel the cold, but for her sake he wore a thick robe over his poet's shirt. She wiggled happily in the bundle of warmth, tucking her head underneath his chin. Erik's core was stirred with every movement she made across his lap, but it seemed unimportant when compared to the contented little hums she made, eyes closed and smile rosy. An easy silence fell into the room, only disturbed by the crackle of the fireplace, and Erik was certain she had fallen asleep until her soft voice vibrated against his adam's apple.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my songbird?"

"You never told me why you left Persia."

Erik's body stiffened beneath her, and Christine wished to take the words back immediately. She had no idea why such a thought had drifted into her sleepy head, but in the gentle comfortableness she hadn't let her better judgement speak. Silence became like a needlepoint. Christine gnawed at her lip. She wanted to dart a look to his eyes, but she didn't dare move. And then-

"Perhaps I should just show you." Came the rumbling answer, distant, as if he was almost speaking to himself.

_Show me?_

Christine's mind ran in all different directions as he began to stir beneath her, shifting to shrug the robe down his shoulders. She pulled back to look at him finally. His face was expressionless, his eyes low and avoiding hers.

"Erik?"

His hand found hers even as the other began to unbutton his shirt until it hung loose around his clavicle. Christine's eyes widened as slowly, shakily, he guided her palm underneath the white, soft fabric to the pale skin underneath. Her fingers brushed along his chest, down to the left cage of his ribs. Something, a line, glassy and raised, slithered like a riverbed down his side to thicken at his stomach. Christine swallowed hard, trying not to tremble as she traced the scar again and again, feeling his heartbeat thrum frantically through his whole torso. She met his eyes and found them locked away as he watched her, studying her reaction guardedly.

"Who, who did this to you?" Shock and sadness trickled from each word. Erik dropped his gaze with the sting of regret. Why had he forced her to see more of his ugliness? He seemed to search for the will to answer her, to not become lost in memory and rage. Her palm pressed softly over his heart, her sapphire stare glistening, and he swallowed hard, biting the inside of his mouth.

"The Shah."

Christine choked out a small sob, closing her eyes even as her lovely, bright face crumpled, even as her hand still rhythmically stroked the scar, the grotesque scar that was one of so many, one of so many distortions and marks and oh, how could she bear to look upon him?

_She loves you, she loves you, she loves you, she has said she loves you, she has shown she loves you…._

He shut his eyes, breathing heavily, barely aware that her fingers had left the scar, that they were now tentatively mapping the rest of his broad, lean chest, that her eyes had opened, adoring though still mournful, yet they were laced with something wanting…

"Are you tired?" He rasped out abruptly, head tangled with past pain and present shame and were those her _hands_? They were so _warm, _so _soft_, running over his bare skin, did she know what she was doing? She had buried her burning face in the crook of his neck, her hair tickling his throat as her nimble fingers undid another button, and then another. She did not answer.

"Christine…" He groaned lowly, a heat coiling tight and fast in his core as her fingers dragged down, down towards his stomach, sparking lightning under her touch. Still grasping the semblance of some reality, he turned his head to her, nose in her curls to question, to warn her.

_Dear little songbird, you do not know what you are doing to me, you do not know what…_

That was, until, her hand ghosted over the waist of his trousers just as her mouth pressed hotly against his racing pulse.

Erik's body was electrified even as his stunned mind melt into haziness, dark and dripping. Heat was beginning to cocoon them where they sat, Christine sprawled about his lap, his tall, commanding body reduced to shivers and twitches as she licked and kissed and sucked at the flesh on his throat, her hands dancing over every inch of skin they could explore. Erik felt he was burning up on the inside, groin tightening in abandon, every nerve-ending in his being becoming as taut as the stings pulled tight upon a violin, ready to snap.

And when she shifted awkwardly on him, falling to straddle his legs, he did.

A growl so animalistic it drew Christine back vibrated from deep within Erik's chest as he suddenly seized her, crashing his mouth to hers in an all-consuming, violent kiss. Their teeth clicked together from the force of it, and he bit her supple lips as Christine gasped for breath, plunging into the depths of her mouth, exploring her tongue with his and dragging her along his aching hardness beneath. Her nightgown was bunched up, exposing the stockings on her calves and the delicious curve of her hips. Erik's hands thought before his mind did, reaching to engulf her waist, grasping soft flesh through the fabric. So beautiful, she was so beautiful and he was kissing her and dear God, he _wanted _her. The angel was in his arms, he had to have her, he had to have her otherwise he was sure he would die, oh, was it so wrong to want her, to want her _like this_? Christine cried out as his grip tightened, and rationality rushed like cold water in the front of Erik's head. He froze, startled eyes snapping to hers.

Both of their panting filled the silent room. Christine's gaze was heavy-lidded but starry, her lips bitten red and her cheeks flushed like rouge on a porcelain doll. Erik's chest lay bare, shirt undone completely and tossed open. Each of her strong thighs were wrapped around Erik's hips, between which he throbbed desperately for her. He swallowed convulsively as Christine's nightgown slipped haphazardly around her shoulder, revealing her slim collarbone. She pulled it back up with trembling fingers. The moment ended. Erik's stomach lurched in realisation and panic.

"Oh, my dear, I, I'm sorry, I have-" He started to try to get up, needing to flee, needing to bury the blinding mortification rising up like bile in his throat. He was shrugging back on the robe, bending past her to snatch up the puddled blanket, wrapping it around her hurriedly, muttering about catching a cold even though his voice shook, beginning to ease her off him. Christine in distress attempted to hold onto his shirt with tight fists, unable to find her voice with cloudy passion still surging through her spine, but he was halfway across the room before she could move.

"Erik!" She finally called, alone in his armchair, still feeling the imprint of where his body had been. He stilled, not turning to face her.

"You should sleep now, Christine." His tone was sharp and abrupt, commanding yet tinged with a frustration he was trying hopelessly to hide.

"Please, Erik." She tried to entice him back with her voice, a dulcet and pleading call. His back stirred.

"Christine, I-" He scrunched his eyes tight.

_How could you think she wanted you in that way?_

"_Please_."

He turned finally, watching her with golden eyes so fierce Christine felt her skin flush with goosebumps , though a screeching modesty brought apprehension thrumming through her head. But oh, how he was looking at her! In that fiery gaze he stole her shame, sending a tingling urge to pool in that secret deepness between her legs. Surely this was a sin, to need him, to desire him so wantonly? But this _was _what she wanted, she could feel it in her scorching veins, in the purring swell stirring through her entire body that he had brought to life. God would forgive her, she reasoned, giving all that He had inflicted upon her Erik. She tried to speak, but the words were stuck in her mouth.

"I-I, can only apologise Christine. Please, please forgive me." Erik knew he was begging but he realised he did not care, he did not care if it meant he could still keep her to love despite the disgusting longing he had forced upon her. He felt sick watching her eyebrows knit in pity and confusion. And then…her mouth parted in understanding.

_Oh my poor, unhappy Erik. _

Slowly, as if in a dream, she walked to him, wrapping her hands around his face. He refused to look at her. Christine knew words were useless, and besides, they were entirely unnecessary anyway. Fluttering her eyes closed, sweetly pressing her body to him, she brought her mouth to his.

She caressed his lips, the familiarity of them, their distorted but wonderful shape, their tenderness. Slowly, oh so very slowly, she rebuilt the passion within him by pouring out hers, unabashed and honest. Erik's lips began to stir to life, moving tentatively, but then, urged on by her teeth nipping for entrance, his mouth was chasing hers. His tongue caressed as he deepened the kiss, causing a hum of delight to vibrate from Christine as he licked the backs of her teeth. His hands snaked into her curls, holding tight before pulling away with an unspoken question.

"I want you, Erik." She sighed breathily. Her eyes were unlike he had ever seen them, darkened by her blooming pupils and glazed with desire. Feeling his hesitation, she let her hands trace down to hold against his chest before leaning in and resting her cheek over his heart. It was racing wildly, as she was certain his mind was, and she wanted to dispel it all, to tease out the passion from his fear. The hands in her hair began to stroke from the crown her head, and they stayed like that for a moment longer, letting the air settle into something less anguished.

Then, his hands began to trace her throat, softly, so very lightly that perhaps she was just imagining it, but no, there were his sinewy, elegant, strong hands on her shoulders, skimming down her sides, feeling the contour of her body underneath the nightgown. She raised her chin to find his aurelian stare on hers, softly frowning, but they were not guarded, nor shameful. They were…timid, yet with a spark behind them. Christine cherished that spark, and her eyes were fluttering and she was tilting her face to him, and those lips, those lips…

Erik was beginning to feel the war within him subsiding, a clear winner marking its victory as pinpricks of pleasure warmed his skin. She tasted like sunshine, but now there was something heady to the kiss; sweet and musky, rich and lavish and delicious, lust swirled around the space of air around them. Carefully, he bit on her bottom lip, eliciting a whimpering moan and a dewy, clouded gaze. The knot was beginning to twist in his core, and as she gripped him, falling into his arms, he bit her pink lip again, harder this time, and began to lose himself to her taste, her scent, the way she held him so close. A breathless gasp. He broke away for just a moment, emboldened, to mouth along her jaw, laying wet, open kisses along the creamy flesh of her throat, causing a shiver to wrack Christine's delicate body.

"_Erik_…" She whimpered, fingers clawing at his robe, and oh, his angel, the way she spoke his name was as reverent as a prayer. He kissed it off her tongue, kissed her until he felt the room fall away around them, until he seared into his memory, his very being, the honeyed flavour of her mouth and the shivers in her limbs. She was touching his chest again, her fingertips on his naked skin, and as they pulled away for breath she dipped to press her mouth against his clavicle. He groaned and felt his eyes close as she kissed across the plains of his chest, her lips trailing down to caress the length of his scar. He frowned deeply as he felt the sorrow in it, and he engulfed her face in his hands to pull her eyes to his. Those sapphire pools held so much adoration, desire and pain.

"Do not let such things bother you, my dear." He whispered sternly, but knew that from her sweet, saddened face that she always felt too much. She carried his pain as hers, and it was impossible to demand otherwise. She nodded silently despite it, sighing softly as he lay a worshipping kiss on her forehead, then her nose, her cheeks, her eyelids, her ear. In that last touch, he felt her body stir back to him, a hitched breath. He kissed it again, lingering this time along the shell of her ear, and she fell into him again, moaning, fingernails pressing crescents into his bare skin. He watched in rapt fascination as her brows knitted and her eyes closed with a shudder as he brazenly grazed her earlobe with his teeth.

_Oh, my darling, the things I could do to you…_

They were lost to the tide then. Every push and pull drew a new wash of desire down their spines, the threshold crumbling and finally falling away in a burst. Christine was frantically pushing off his robe, feeling his warming skin pressed against her as her fingers stroked through his sparse hair, meeting him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. Erik's senses were overflowing as gripped her body through the nightgown, the roundness of her hips, the sculpture of her breasts, and every desperate, coarse touch was leaving Christine trembling and whimpering, and she let him, and _she wanted him to_, and through the haze Erik's mind rang clear with _bed, bed, bed…_

In a rush of pure instinct, Erik swept Christine into his arms, carrying her like a bride down the hall to her bedroom. She barely seemed to notice as she kissed his throat with a slackened mouth, and she was so dazed with it all, her little hands pawing absently at his shoulders, stripping his poet's shirt. He lay her on the plush bed, crawling onto her so they were not severed for a moment. The low glimmer of the fire from beyond the open door bathed Christine in a soft, warm glow. She smiled brightly at him, her cheeks flushed and her hair astray and her nightgown crumpled, and he thought for the strangest moment that he might cry. Instead, he covered her with his body slowly, and felt a flare of tenderness as she encircled her arms around his neck.

Christine sighed as Erik's lean, hard body pressed hers to the bed, entombing her in his commanding frame. The ache deep within was beating with the pulse of her heart, and she suddenly wanted to feel him everywhere, to feel herself melt into his darkness, his light. She wanted to get lost against his skin and get tangled up in his soul so tightly, so completely that it almost hurt. His soft breath fanned her face as he leant over her, golden eyes studying hers. Then, so very carefully, he kissed her with an edge of thick poison, of a veiled promise that made Christine's blood hum.

Erik continued like that, slow and engulfing, sending little sparks shooting down Christine's spine to melt into a pool below her naval. Oh, he had never kissed her like _this_ before, like he was trying to consume her, to breathe her into his very lungs. His clever hands returned, dancing across her throat, along the length of her body, slowly but purposefully as he reacquainted himself with her body, the silhouette he had so adored and spent wakeful hours sketching in dreamlike fantasies. They were pale, pallid in comparison, because nothing could possibly feel as divine as her curls splayed around them like a sea or the way her hip felt in his grip as he absently pulled her closer, closer, ever closer. Christine could feel his desire pulsing against her thigh, hard and thick, as they began to move against each other, chasing friction, a hot frenzy fluttering up from within her.

Fingers began to unbutton her nightgown at the collar and Erik's lips followed, pressing into every inch of revealed flesh, nipping gently, leaving Christine gasping as the sensation of his mouth filled every corner of her delirious mind. Erik's growl rumbled low and deep… she was so sweet and soft, all flawless, blushing skin. He paused for a moment as he reached her last button, his mouth tasting her collarbone, trying to find permission in her drunk eyes.

"Christine." He could only groan, his dulcet voice rough with want. She writhed helplessly, pleading, and Erik could barely believe it.

_Have I really done this to my chaste, innocent darling? Oh, Christine, Christine…_

Something in his chest growled in intoxicating disbelief as her words enveloped him.

"_Yes, yes, yes…_"

All rational thought was shattered as he pulled the dangling nightgown and chemise over her head and dropped it limply to the floor. Her curls tumbled over her bare shoulders, her chest heaving with each desperate breath. Erik's mouth went dry, his stunned mind overcome. She was sculpted by jealous angels who longed for the touch of a woman. He drew a ragged line with his eyes from the slopes of her slim waist, up to the imprint of her navel, the small cocoon of her ribcage, the soft curvature of her luscious, rounded breasts with their puckering, rose-pink nipples, her beautiful collarbone, her swan neck. Her strong, shapely legs were covered by her drawers, her stockinged thighs, the centre of her heat, that untouched core of passion beneath still more fabric.

"Christine…" Erik whispered, unable to move or even pay attention to the ache surging through his abdomen. She watched the ravaged side of his face smooth into an expression she had never seen before, one of pure awe and heated desire. His aurelian eyes darkened, and Christine felt her limbs quiver. His touch landed upon her like a butterfly upon a flower, so soft, barely there as his fingertips skimmed her shoulder.

Christine felt a rush of self-consciousness as the room became hushed. Her guilt resurfaced. This was more than just thoughts and kisses, this was real. She was half-naked with a man, and she _wanted _the man. She squirmed under the burn of his stare, bringing her arms up to make some attempt of covering herself, flustered and red. His hands came around her wrists, and slowly, gently, but with a strength that she had forgotten he possessed, he pinned her arms effortlessly above her head. He was watching her face, scrutinising every feature for any flicker of fear.

_If he sees I am afraid, he will stop, and he will never allow this again. I am afraid, but not of him, dear God, I am afraid of myself…_

"I am sorry this is not a marriage bed." Erik whispered sincerely, as if reading her mind, his lips sharing the same air as hers. Christine couldn't meet his gaze, eyebrows furrowed and focusing intently on a spot by his scarred side.

"I believe we are already bound together, and God can see it. I-I know He can." She gasped in earnest, mind skittering.

"Then, what are you afraid of?" His voice became even softer, a caress in itself. He still held her firmly, and Christine felt an odd thrill in her belly despite the stuck thoughts unable to form words. She shut her eyes tightly, feeling horribly exposed in a way that was more than skin, but rather, soul-deep.

"I should not…desire such things, and I do not know what I am desiring anyway." She confessed is a whisper, opening her eyes although they darted to avoid his. She had heard the ballet rats' gossip and the sermons, had heard of the pleasure and completion alongside the stony speeches of surrendering one's body to a husband, but despite both she could not even picture those things, she could not even imagine what sensations and acts they spoke of other than the burning, aching hunger now inside her. In the silence Christine could feel Erik contemplating, a frown gracing his lips even as both their chests rose and fell in unison, chasing deep, desperate breaths.

"I do not know either."

Christine's eyes widened as they landed on his.

"You have never…?"

He smirked, genuinely amused, though a fire still lay beyond his gaze as he dipped to bite teasingly at her ear, making Christine's lip tremble as she moaned brokenly. How could such a kiss feel this way, so light, a tickle that caused a wetness to pool between her legs, an itch she could not scratch no matter how she twisted and writhed?

"You are very kind, my dear, but no. Shall we uncover such secrets together?" His voice held such an edge of temptation that Christine almost felt it on her skin, and _yes_, because she knew her body was safe here, in his arms, under his eyes and touch because he had treasured her heart and breathed life into her soul, and yes, because all she could think of was how to make his imposing body crumble as he made hers, to discover these hidden things with him, and yes, yes…

"_Yes_, Erik."

And with a flash of something almost predatory in his otherworldly eyes, he shifted down her bare chest to engulf her nipple in his hot mouth.

Christine cried out in shock, stunned by the power of the wave that crashed down her spine. His lips were sucking and kissing indulgently, his tongue swirling lazily around the budding pink peak as his deft fingers pinched and kneaded her other breast until it puckered. Her hands flew to his head, lacing through his scarce hair to dig into his scalp, clasping him in place as he lavished her with his mouth. He hummed deliciously around her, finally releasing her nipple to press wet kisses up to her throat, nuzzling in the bed of curls at the juncture where her neck met shoulder. He kissed her there, sucking, drawing purple rosettes which looked so beautiful on her ivory skin, licking up the moans vibrating under his lips. Those marks soothed a rawness in his heart, his teeth biting and drawing sounds out of her that were feverish and wanting.

_Mine, mine, only mine…_

Christine was bucking helplessly beneath him and he couldn't help grinding against her, their naked torsos sliding against each other, her chest so pliable and yielding under his hard one. Roughly, he groped along the supple body beneath him, gripping soft flesh and delectable hips. Electricity pulsed in his chest, in his stomach, in his cock which was beginning to throb almost painfully. He was on such an edge, such blinding bliss…but no, he seized his control with a steadying breath. She mewled weepily when he stilled, though in that second she raised a shaky hand to trace the bite at her neck and visibly shuddered. Christine blinked up at him with a deliriousness that stabbed hard in Erik's gut, bitten lips slightly parted and looking positively ruined.

And he was upon her then, careful to beat down his own release as he focused on tasting the curves of her breasts, his tongue dipping into her navel, teeth dragging. His hands dipped to climb up the length of her drawers, seeking out her heat, that thick heat pounding so heavily between her legs that Christine did not know what will happen when he touches her there, but she finds she doesn't care as long as he _does_. Those calloused, strong, graceful musician's fingers eased apart the slit in her drawers. A bated breath. He touched the delicate, wet skin beneath and Christine was suddenly lost to dark, velvet flames.

Erik's golden eyes remained transfixed as he watched Christine cry out half-choked, her mouth agape, her brow scrunched and eyes shut tightly as he swirled his fingers over her silky flesh. The heel of his palm was pressed flush against the plump mound of her sex, covered in damp, soft curls. His mind was beginning to slip into a state he only thought possible before a kill; based on instinct yet so precise, blood on his tongue and purpose in his movements, that perfect knife's edge of control and carnality. He felt her for a long moment, mapped the secret place that was so wet and wanting for him, for _him_, tracing her folds. Christine gasped and moaned beneath him, until she lost her breath and shivered in spasms when the pads of his fingers pressed against her tight bundle of nerves.

Erik had some idea of the female anatomy, knowledge he had gained by various detailed books along with accidental wanderings into secluded corners of the Shah's palace and the Opera alike. He really hadn't thought too much of it, having studied it as anything else, as something to know though it would never be useful to him. That was, until of course, Christine. His songbird who grew into a woman, a woman who awoke that vivid, violent, suffocating hunger within him, long dormant but very much alive, barely sated by the lonely nights he had roughly spilled himself into his fist. It wanted _her_, simmering just below the tenderness in his heart, a dark, intoxicating force in his gut… it wanted to _devour _her. In the moment he had brushed over the epicentre of her pleasure, she had thrust her hips blindly, eyes snapping open to meet his. She seemed almost stunned that such a sensation could exist, something so sublime and tempting, and he circled that inflamed bud again, and again, and in a moment she was unravelling under his hands. But oh, there was still so much more…

Christine felt his touch shift, his thumb still stroking that sensitive place even as his other hand was pulling apart her drawers even further. She stiffened with a hitched breath as a long finger began to press against a deep and aching entrance to herself. Feeling her tense, Erik's lips trailed up to caress her nipple again, tonguing the swollen nub. Christine sighed brokenly, melting beneath him as her hands dug into his shoulders. He smirked, though it was soon chased away with a sincere frown as he pulled away to press worshipping, open-mouthed kisses along the column of her throat. Head in a dizzying spiral of sensation and heat, Christine felt his finger slowly, slowly slip into her and relished the hard pangs of pleasure, parting her lips to both kiss and moan for him.

He moved his finger steadily, feeling every ridge within her hot core. His cock was straining at the tightness of her, his hips shifting incessantly as he became crazed by the thought of how she might feel, wrapped around him, searing and wet…

She was played as easily as his instruments, those clever fingers pulling noises and cries from her throat that Christine had never heard before. But she couldn't hear herself anyway, it felt like she was underwater, and oh, something curled inside her, stroking against her walls so deeply and-

"Erik!"

Christine had a vague awareness that a great tension was building inside her, a knot tightening with every slide of his hands against her, inside her, and with nonsense spilling from her lips Erik growled and tore off her drawers with his free hand in one swift movement, before heaving up her thighs and pressing his mouth and tongue into her sex.

"_O herrejävlar!"_

"Language." Erik tutted lowly with a wolfish grin, licking into her folds and lapping up her wetness. Christine thought she was going to explode, the sensation wracking her body so powerful that everything but the thrumming between her legs seemed to fall away. Every time his eyes met hers they were fiery enough to scorch skin, and oh, Christine felt she was on fire, being consumed from the inside out. A strange cold sweat broke over her flushed skin, and she could only moan hoarsely as Erik kissed and sucked at her throbbing bud of nerves, sliding his fingers inside her and beginning to find a slow and loose rhythm. Christine shivered deliriously, eyes scrunching close as she melted into pure, blinding pleasure. The rhythm gradually became faster, building into a shattering crescendo, and she really didn't notice that she was gasping _please, please, please_. The knot in her core was twisting, and she wasn't quite sure…she knew of the process, but this felt huge, it felt like she would drown.

"Erik, I'm, ah, I'm-" She tried, the words dissolving into a whimper. Her fingers were shaking as they clawed into Erik's face, pulling urgently. Amber eyes raked over her, cooing softly but not slowing his pace.

"Let go, my dove, let go…"

"Erik, Erik, oh God…" She was both soothed and inflamed by his soft groans. The tension in her body grew, ready to break apart in a single moment. With hazy eyes, she watched Erik press his mouth flush against her again, his tongue and teeth and lips creating a cacophony of bliss in her veins. Louder, louder, she was panting, moaning on every breath. Erik circled his tongue around the swollen, pink nub as he sucked in time with his caressing hand, growling deeply, the vibrations going straight up her limbs. With a last burst she cried out, white-light sparking from behind her eyes, and in a throb that made her spasm, reality crumbled around her.

It felt like some time before Christine drifted back into consciousness. Erik was stroking her inner thighs gently with his thumbs, mouthing wet kisses along her hipbone. Still feeling the twitches of aftershocks and violent shudders, mind completely blank and fuzzy, Christine reached down to stroke back Erik's messed hair, eliciting an almost purr.

"Oh, Christine, you are so beautiful."

It was scarcely above a whisper, spoken like a sigh, but Christine heard it all the same. Her heart was sore from all the love pounding through it, but she found she still hadn't remembered how to speak, so instead she simply pulled Erik up for a thoughtful kiss. He sighed gently and broke away to nuzzle into her temple, lips capturing stray tears. They didn't feel like tears to Christine, since a rhapsody of pure happiness was blooming in her chest. Erik smiled into his angel's curls, feeling the glow of her heavenly divinity beneath his skin. The room fell quiet amongst heaving breaths and flickering firelight.

"Do you, would you…?" Christine tried after a little while, shakily moving to try to sit up, hand awkwardly reaching for some equivalent part of him. Erik merely shushed her and stayed tangled upon her, pressing kisses onto her lips, her cheeks, her nose, her eyelids. She let him, feeling as if she was made of warm liquid, drifting in an easy current, a quiet moment in the eye of the storm that surrounded them. It could not last forever. Christine had felt him reach into a secret place within her, felt something she had not known existed sing in ecstasy, and she wanted _more_. She wanted _him_.

"Erik…" She tried again, and he was so subdued by her pleasure that he did not realise she was seeking out his manhood until her little palm was pressing heavily against him. He gasped and flinched as if he had been burnt. His eyes focused upon her, so wonderfully naked, hair wild and sapphire stare so bright. She could have been an ethereal nymph he had been blessed to share his bed with by some generous god. Her fingers began to trace the outline of his cock through the fabric of his trousers, and he could only let his eyes flutter close as his whole body howled in the need to surrender to her touch, to just let himself fall, fall, fall and never resurface. But he didn't want to, not until he had filled her, completed her, but couldn't help but lean into her, hips twitching, and with a sudden rush of boldness, Christine quickly unclasped the waist of his trousers and slipped her hand inside.

The storm thundering dimly between them struck lighting as she stroked hard, smooth flesh she could only explore with her hand. She wished to tear the pants from him until he was naked as she, to see this part of him with her eyes, but suddenly a vice-like grip constricted around her wrist. She stilled, eyes anxiously flickering to his face. He seemed almost to be in pain, and Christine was almost concerned that she hurt him in some way when he crushed his mouth onto hers. Everything moved so fast then, losing any glimpse of sanity along the way as Erik kicked off his trousers and settled between Christine's thighs. They fell open for him easily, inviting all he was. She could feel the length of him, thick and hard and hot against her belly, his hips sliding and grinding into hers, his arms encircling around her shoulders to hold her close, until no space was left between them, chest to chest, biting at the corner of her mouth.

"I need to have you, Christine…" He purred deliciously over her naked skin, strong hands flexing in her curls in need. He was so warm to the touch, he had always been so icy, Christine thought dizzily, but now every inch of him was pressing heat over body, and every part of them that was touching _burned_. Christine was mapping the lines of scars on his back, the rigidness of hard muscle that rippled under her fingertips.

"Christine." His beautiful voice was now commanding though it seemed to beg for an answer. Christine gave it in a rush of desperate breath, gaze adoring and glossy.

"_Please, please, please, Erik…"_

Suddenly the head of his manhood was pressed against her entrance, nudging into her folds. He flashed her a careful look, studying her face thoroughly though his golden eyes were so dark with hunger. He seemed to become conflicted for a moment, uncertainty skittering onto his features. A heartbeat.

"I do not want to ruin you." He confessed quietly, abruptly. He was still aching and hard for her, but as he began to frown, Christine dreaded to see loathing and fear beginning to overflow.

"You never could." She whispered, eyes wide, face flushed and still dazed. He blinked, suddenly stunned by her sincerity, and then closed his eyes after a few seconds, sighing away the dread. The anguish began to melt from his face, replaced with something considered, a thin veil of control over the seas of fiery passion. He pressed his forehead to hers, and then, he pressed into her.

It _hurt_, that was the first thing Christine could comprehend. It felt invasive, it felt as if that rigid, warm part of him was breaching something deep and untouched. It felt new and thrilling and white-hot, like dancing your fingertips over a fire for the first time and feeling alight with the scorching life of it. Tears beaded vaguely in the corner of her eyes, but she could only focus on Erik's breath on her lips as he eased himself into her. Slowly, slowly, time slipped away until he was fully buried within her, hips nestled in hers. There was a pause of wonder as they both felt the pure, blinding sensation of being connected, of being entangled together in such a way. Christine felt herself relax around him, that pulsing point of pleasure he had kissed and sucked tingling until it was desperate again, willing her to shift and writhe in the need of friction, the inside of her knees pressing into his sides.

_Hot, everything feels so hot and heavy and I need him to move, dear God I need to move…_

"Erik?" She called out as if in a dream, his name vibrating in the little space between them. His eyes were still closed.

He was shaking.

And then, his eyes opened. They were soft as honey, and as golden and dangerous as a lion poised to ravage a wounded gazelle. His lips brushed a restrained kiss to her brow, and then he rolled his hips up gently, sliding to the hilt inside of her, and then again, and again, setting a dull rhythm. Christine felt her body ache and throb, feeling the thickness of his manhood stretching her, moving in her, and the little twinge of ecstasy in her core was beginning to bloom, flower, unfurl its petals, and suddenly his curling, slow pace pulled a moan from between her lips. His hips jerked in response, a growl deep in his chest rolling up into his throat, and she felt a flood of bliss pour from that spot he had touched, crying out louder, fingers digging into his back and the nape of his neck. Her sobbing pleas drove him deeper, his thrusts becoming more purposeful, more pointed and hard, his groans slipping as his always proud face became overcome and abandoned to pleasure and lust, and-

_He is so beautiful._

"Erik, Erik, Erik…" She sung his name like an aria, her creamy thighs wrapping tight around his waist so he could sink even further into her tight heat. Erik was becoming overfull with her, with the sounds he was stirring out of her pink mouth, with the tousled curls his fingers were buried in, with her breasts that were soft and flush against his chest, with this, this, this, oh, he had never dared to imagine, he had never thought this was how it could feel, and she was so wonderfully _hot_ beneath him, around him, _for him, _she was begging _for him_, and he couldn't help but constrict his arms even tighter around her, holding her so that there could be no distance between them. Faster, faster, and every thrust began to unravel them both.

His lips were leaving bruising kisses on her face, her throat, her collarbone, as their rhythm became desperate, chasing the promise of release. His teeth grazed over the plane of her cheek, their wild caresses frantic. He groaned huskily, his tongue becoming loose with the sensation of skin on skin filling every inch of his mind. His angel was so silken, burning and bright. Suddenly, heavy-lidded eyes widened to find his as he twisted to reach an unknown part of her, and he could see the shimmer of a rhapsodic tear as her fingers wrapped around the nape of his neck to pull him down for another furious kiss. Their hips crashed into each other, their hearts stammering and their souls undulating like breathing infernos. She clawed at him, leaving scratch marks on his back, and how a beast in him _purred _at every sting of her nails in his flesh. She was feverishly pulling him closer, as if trying to mould herself into him.

_Oh, my little Christine…_

Christine felt herself reaching the precipice again, driven towards the cliff by his cock pulsing within her, driving into her until she her body became untethered from her mind, until it was bucking against him and chanting through every pore, through every frayed and searing nerve-end, _yes, yes, yes, yes, and how could something so divine be a sin?_

His pace became frantic, feeling the swell in his core rush up his spine so powerfully that it was impossible to contain, and in those precious moments, he relinquished any scrap, any illusion of control and let himself go. He gave her all he had in a few, hard thrusts, all-consuming bliss filling his veins, white light behind his eyes. His face was buried into the sweet crook of her neck as he released himself deep inside her heat, cock twitching. The light after the abyss, the glow of satisfaction, of completion rushing into his limbs in the seconds after…Erik finally understood why it was called the 'little death'.

But Christine was still writhing helplessly underneath him, whimpering and pleading in need, gaze lost and unseeing. Suddenly, his fingers were pressing and circling her bud of pleasure, swollen and sensitive, just above where they were still joined, and his head dipped to bring her nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping, and in less than a heartbeat, Christine was sent tumbling over the edge with him. The spasms he felt around his softening cock made him shiver.

….

It was some while before they spoke again. They stayed wrapped up in each other, Erik lazily stroking her waist, his lips humming at her pulse point. Christine still shuddered from the occasional delicious aftershock, and he swallowed every one with his body over hers. The firelight was beginning to die, and Christine felt the sweat on their skin cool, but he was still so strangely warm, entombing her. She began to smooth back the thin strands of his hair, tracing with an index finger the scars of his torso, reddened slightly by her own nails. She flushed in worry for a moment, tensing, but as if reading her thoughts, a smiling, delirious murmur rumbled into her ear.

"Who would have thought my little kitten had claws?" He teased darkly and sleepily, shifting so that he finally pulled out of her body. Christine frowned a little at the sensation, feeling suddenly empty and sore and wet. She flinched as she rubbed her legs together, and this time he tensed, a large, spindly hand settling just above her sex, between her hip bones.

"How do you feel?" His tone was curled up in concern, but Christine simply put her hand over his, squeezing.

"I-I am fine, I just wish you could just stay inside me always." She rushed breathily, then turned bright red in mortification. His drowsy, deep chuckle vibrated against her throat, stroking her knuckles with his thumb.

"You are a darling girl, Christine." She saw his smile as he moved himself off her, bending to retrieve his discarded shirt. After flashing a look of permission, he used the silken, soft material to clean the wetness between her legs before letting it drop to the ground once again. She was seeking out his chest and he bundled her into him, pulling the thick blankets over their naked bodies. She tucked her head under his chin, cheek over his heart, his arms wrapped tight around her and absently pressing kisses into her hair, singing quietly in scarcely more than a whisper. His melodic voice was like rose nectar, so sweet, so gentle, so subdued. Christine felt herself unable to think over the hum of exhausted contentment and bliss, but even then she realised she had soothed some blistering wound inside him, she had felt some jagged piece of him soften and become quiet. The thought gave wings to the butterflies in her heart, and she nuzzled further into him and smiled.

"When you ask me to be your wife, I will say yes." She told him. The singing stopped abruptly, his fingers frozen in her hair.

"Christine, I-" It sounded as if he was choking down a sudden sob, his grip tightening around her, but she simply kissed hard plain of his chest, eyes still closed in drowsiness.

"Yes, my love, but for now, we should sleep."

She felt him nod as he shifted down further into the bed, holding her so very close. The last thing she felt was a tear and a trembling kiss on her forehead as the dim firelight faded into darkness, and then she was plunged into dewy dreams.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N hello everyone, here is some pure fluff with a bit of angst sprinkled in. is this too tooth-rotting? also would we like to see a wedding? i'm thinking of a handful of few chapters before i wrap this baby up and maybe embark on some more E/C stories!**

**thank you for reading!**

**WARNING: Drug use and drug abuse (morphine)**

Night became sacred to Erik. Sometimes, during long days when she was away, he would be able to close his eyes and pull a delicate a string of pictures in dim light, so frozen in time they could have been preserved in wax. Today was such a day; a sluggish, irritable afternoon, Christine perusing Paris with the Giry's for summer dresses. At first, he had made a fuss about the whole trip, insisting that he could find her the loveliest gowns if that was what she desired, ones that could not be matched by any in the new season, because she really _needn't _be absent the _entire day_.

"Darling, that is hardly the point of such outings." She had sighed, gracing him with a kiss to his twisted cheek and a roll of her eyes.

He sat idle at his piano now, watching his pocket-watch for the hands to rearrange in such a way that allowed him to wander to her home after the faint glow of dusk. She hadn't spent many nights there in recent months, but with Christine deciding to keep the fact that the mysterious man who had captured her heart was also the nefarious Opera Ghost to herself, she would have to return to her apparent home. She had said a premature 'goodnight' on her departure, knowing that he would be knocking at her door at nightfall all the same.

Erik resisted the urge to pace and instead closed his eyes, rummaging through his memories to find that sweet collection of images; bed, sweat, her smiling face…

….

"That is ridiculous! You have to know it!" She was propped up on her elbow, gaze sparkling in merriment. She was golden from the candlelight, her curls messed and falling to tickle his shoulder from where he was, laid on his back and still practically drunk with pleasure. There was something innocent about her unabashed nakedness, as if through their lovemaking she had forgotten bodies were things to be clothed and covered. A little hand plucked a Turkish delight from the tin resting between their hips, icing sugar dusting her bitten bottom lip as she popped it leisurely in her mouth. Despite the complete satisfaction humming through his gut, Erik had to admire the warm beauty of her form, as if she was some lounging young Empress posing for an elegant marble nude.

"I do not read children's poems, my dear." He smirked in a tease, raising an eyebrow. Christine huffed, rolling onto her stomach to brush noses with him. In such moments, he had to remind himself of the horridness of his face, and yet even when he did it all became rather secondary to the fond, playful way she was looking at him.

"Shall I recite for you then? After all, you always teach me things unknown to me." She challenged with a jesting grin. Erik couldn't help but chuckle, bathing in her light and the radiance of bliss and the warmth of the Spring night.

"Of course."

His eyes closed to a sweet whisper that he could feel on his skin.

"_The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea_

_In a beautiful pea-green boat:_

_They took some honey,_

_and plenty of money_

_Wrapped up in a five-pound note._

_The Owl looked up to the stars above,_

_And sang to a small guitar,_

_"O lovely Pussy, O Pussy, my love,_

_What a beautiful Pussy you are,_

_You are,_

_You are!_

_What a beautiful Pussy you are!"_

Erik smiled at the lilting tones of her voice, at the nonsense of it all. She began to stroke his face with the tip of one finger, gently, rhythmically, up and down his cheek. He barely remembered fading into sleep, but like the figment of a dream, he captured the last of her words.

"_And hand in hand on the edge of the sand_

_They danced by the light of the moon,_

_The moon,_

_The moon,_

_They danced by the light of the moon."_

….

His hands began to start a meandering tune on the piano, relishing in the past moment stirring in his mind. He found the corners of his lips tweaked in a smile.

_Who would have known, when I stood bathed in blood before the Shah, that I would spend nights entangled in bed with an angel, eating sweets and reciting nonsense-poems?_

The thought drew a bitter edge, however, another memory flooding into his head in a sudden flurry. It was a cousin of the gentle images that floated gently around in his consciousness, though it was one he had no real want to remember. He was suddenly plunged back into the iciness of Winter.

….

"_Ä__lskling, _you are still awake?"

A hazy, sleepy Christine appeared at the doorway of his organ room, rubbing her eyes with a fist. Her feet were bare, tightly wrapped up in one of his robes that completely dwarfed her slight figure. She was frowning.

"It is alright, my dear. Go back to bed." He assured softly, trying to not let his biting misery bubble through his words. He had begun to secretly wane himself off the morphine at that time, not being able to bring himself to show her the true cost of his screaming, tormenting memories. It made him feel weak, and he knew she would only be crushed even further by the extent of his burdens. It had been miraculous how Christine had quietened the aches, yet the past still reared and kicked at his ribs, and now it meant that there was no instant remedy to drown it all.

Her frown was accompanied by a furrow of her brow. He forgot how apt she had become at sensing such things.

_She shouldn't have to be, you are pathetic…_

"Erik?" She tried again, taking a step forward. He hated the tentative concern in her voice, as if wanting to approach a wild beast. He _was _a beast, and he had trapped her with him, yes, he had, like a whispering serpent, slithered his way into her heart. His hands were trembling as he struck the organ hard with his fists, and he felt her start with the scream of the keys. The silence afterwards was worse than the sound itself.

"Please, Christine. Please, go to bed." He was pleading, gently, softly, still not able to look at her, desperate to contain everything fizzling dangerously within him.

_Fearless, kind-hearted, dear girl… my darling girl could not just leave me to my torments…_

"No, Erik! Tell me, I could, I could…" She was flailing for the words, and he knew she would never find them, because there were no stitches strong enough to pull the wounds inside of him together. He was grotesque; bleeding endlessly within a scarred carcass, a carcass that made love to her, that defiled her beautiful body and oh, now he felt sick, he felt sick, he felt sick, he felt sick…

"Leave me! Leave me _alone_!" He howled like the depraved creature he was, it all overflowing in a tidal wave, but it did not sound like his voice, and she was standing so very still, just watching him with those big blue eyes that always cut to his very soul. She did not seem afraid, he did not know _what_ she seemed, but her face was screwing up in a way that he knew meant she was fighting back tears.

_Oh God, I need it. I need it._

He strode at a deadly pace past her, towards his chambers. He never really used the room, hence why he stored the last remnants of his liquid sleep within its walls. Pulling apart the little compartment in the skirting board, he dropped to his knees to sift through it. His fingers were shaking as they found the clear vial, the needle, and he could only just see the outline of her little pale feet before everything dissolved into blackness.

He woke with a pounding head and heavy veins, bundled in the musky warmth of his bed, his unused and dusty but so very _warm _bed. Colours were melting dimly around his eyelids, and he thought perhaps he did not have to ever open his eyes again, that perhaps he could just lay here and forget he ever existed. But he could feel her satin skin on his cheek, her little body curled protectively around his. He stirred and she held him harder. Unbelievable shame and humiliation flared in his chest, and if his mind was at all present, he would have thought the Punjab lasso to be his only remedy.

She didn't speak, although the words would come. In those minutes, all he could cling to in reality was the heaving of her chest in deep breath and the smell of her fading perfume. Hours, perhaps it was hours, drifting in and out of consciousness and yet always so painfully aware of the tears slipping quietly onto his forehead. When she finally spoke, it was in a whisper that was hollow.

"I did not know that you…how could I have not known?" He barely knew if she was asking the question for him, or for herself. Her fingers were ghosting over the fading, though still scarred punctures on the inside of his arm, a glimpse that she perhaps knew, in the corners of her mind, all along. Thorns struck at his heart at her guilt. This horridness was nothing but him, disgusting and weak. He tried to tell her this, to coo gently into her hair as he did when she was upset, but he could not find his tongue, nor any will in his limbs.

_I may as well be a corpse…_

"I wish I could see into your mind and understand." She spoke so quietly, her throat raw with tears. Her sad voice seemed to hum in his head. Time eased in and out between them. In what had to be the early morning, though it was still shrouded in deep darkness, he grasped the thin thread of his shame, his secrets, and began to pull. He had to tell her, he had to tell her enough. No, not all, but enough, lest the tears his unsaid words caused burned into his skin. He moved to sit up and his head swam, Christine scrambling to hold his face in concern, but after a moment he had pushed himself upright.

He could not look at her, but he could tell her. Yes, he owed her that much. He took a breath even as his heart felt dazed and sore. His voice was low and meandering and rough with drugged sleep, watching her hands writhe in her lap.

"The Shah spilt blood in his court. There I learnt how to kill with the Punjab lasso, and with it I took the lives of many men."

He pulled the thread in his mind, willing the past to unravel itself. The Shah on his throne, a hall of mirrors, the murdered souls who haunted his spirit. Christine was so quiet, so silent, a statue.

"A man named Nadir, a cousin of the Shah, became the only person I could trust. When the Shah grew wary of me, saw my twisted mind and bloody hands, saw a phantom that could wring his neck and slip away into darkness, disappear into walls, Nadir helped me escape. I came back to France."

The thread caught at a knot that seemed to gather in his throat. He did not tell her of how it felt to bleed from the gut until he saw nothing but grey. He did not tell her of the faint memories of his mother, or the brutality, or the gypsies or the cages. This was enough of his past, or it would be for now. The silence hung heavy and damp, and for some reason Erik realised there was no shock or horror that electrified it, like he had always expected. It was weighted simply with sorrow.

"And I made you tell all those stupid stories…" Her voice was shaking, in what seemed anger or in shame. He had to look at her then. Her face was bright with tears and rage. Her curls were messed and created a mass around her slight, trembling body, her eyes glassy.

"Christine, you did not know…"

"How could I not know? I am a stupid girl, and the morphine… oh Erik." With a choke of a sob, she buried her face in her hands, then as he blindly, slowly, reached out to her, she grasped his hand, pressed kiss after kiss into his knuckles.

"I am trying to use it less, I just have been trying for…some time now." He exhaled and suddenly felt so very tired, and she was coaxing him back, laying him down. His eyelids felt heavy, and though the pain in his chest was sharp and the buzzing in his brain was loud, it stilled slightly as she curled up into him. The world went quiet, and something seemed to lift off his soul, making it just a bit lighter.

….

Erik shook off the dread of that memory, of the gentle nights in her arms that followed. The morphine still took hold of his veins in harsh hours, but it all seemed less cold and terrible when he dozed with Christine bundled in his arms. It was icy in that past scene, but now it was Summer. He checked his pocket-watch though his fingers now trembled slightly, and yes, she should be starting to her home now. Arranging his wig and mask, he slipped into the deep catacombs. As he saw through the blackness that ran under the streets of Paris, he pulled his most sacred image from inside his consciousness, the one that in its purity and beauty banished all stabbing thoughts and painful throbs. He breathed out a sigh and let it soothe his psyche.

….

The air was warm, the stars silver overhead as they strolled through a park with green trees and budding flowers. It had been a lovely night for a walk, he had insisted, a question heavy in his mind that he was hoping she could not see or sense in her uncanny way. Christine was beautiful, her hair pinned back, wearing one of his dresses, a soft, silken pink gown, and chattering brightly about a play she had seen with Meg, about a book she was reading on linguistics, about the next production at the Opera. Her hand was on his arm, her sapphire eyes reflecting the light of a lone street lamp. He had been rather quiet, and after a while she had resulted in saying something.

"I must say, I am almost exhausted by maintaining this conversation solely on my own." She quipped after a pause, glancing teasingly up to him. His heart hammered like a drum, swallowing hard. He slowed their pace, watching her eyebrows furrow in question. He suddenly felt hot, alight just under his skin, and as he breathed deeply he willed himself to _please say this right_.

"Christine, I…" He tried, but then choked on his own breath.

_What if she says no? What if she didn't mean what she said? What if she says no?_

Her eyes went soft, her fingers coming to run along the edge of his mask until she reached his lips, tracing them with her thumb in a thoughtful way, studying him.

"Is something the matter, my love?"

"No, only that…"

"Yes?"

He took a breath, his hands grasping hers. He was shaking.

"Erik?"

"Will you marry me, Christine?"

There was a bated breath. Christine's hands went limp in his hold for a moment, her eyes widening and her pink lips parting. He poured his words desperately into the open air, where they drifted between them.

"I know I do not have much to offer you, but I swear I would be a gentle and kind husband, and I would take care of you. We could live wherever you chose, and I would try to never raise my voice with you or cause you any pain. I never wish to be parted from you, and if you will let me stay by your side, if- if you will become my wife, I will treasure you for as long as I live and longer… and longer. You have brought life into my existence. I love you, Christine. I love you."

Her eyes suddenly held pools. A brilliant smile grew slowly upon her face like a rising sun.

"Well, then…"

….

The dark city engulfed Erik as he walked to Christine's home. It was quiet in the backstreets he took, but even so he found himself less guarded than usual, the memory trickling into his mind like golden honey. When he reached her door, when he knocked and she opened it with an expectant smile, he realised what his heart had been whispering in each pulse, ever since he met her.

_Yes, here is my other half. Inside of her, inside of her._

He sat in her small bedroom, watching her hurry to and fro in a pale nightgown making tea, prattling about her shopping trip. Her elegant, small hand was flitting between china tea cups, the third finger banded with his black-stoned ring.

On some nights, Erik felt dizzy and sick with fear, with loathing, simply at the notion of coveting her before God. But on gentle nights like this, all he could do was smirk beneath his mask and bask in her glow, letting it ease every ache in his soul. Later, he would unwrap the nightgown from her body and worship her with his lips, and in the quiet and stillness, he would feel slightly whole.

Just before Christine fell into dreams, she spared a thought for the pearl white dress waiting for her at the dressmakers.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N hello! this is just some tooth-rotting somewhat-boring fluff with Nadir and the wedding. one more chapter left and then this is done and dusted! let me know if you want to see any particular sort of E/C in the future as that is what i'll be writing after this fic.**

**thanks for reading! :)**

A checker slid in a parallel dance to another. A girl with dark chocolate curls, though she had become a woman in every sense of the word, was flitting her fingers over the board, contemplating her next play. The man seated across from her had a sharp, tawny face, and deep-set eyes as lively as a bird's. The girl wore pale silken gown, its veil haphazardly thrown to the side of the oak table. Years, empires and ages stood between the two, and yet…

...

"I did not know where you had ended up. Why did you never tell me?"

Nadir was polishing the rim of a champagne glass, not even looking up at the slender, elegant figure half-shadowed in the dim of the hotel bar. He was sliding his long fingers over the gold trim of the counter absently, flicking his amber gaze to the heiresses and dukes laughing airily around polished tables. Nadir frowned at the silence, sensing the weight of the coming answer.

"I ruined your life once, Nadir. I did not think it kind to ruin it again." Erik's tone was quiet, just as he remembered it. Only once or twice had he heard the bone-chilling roar that voice could swell to be, but no, this dulcet softness, this considered reservation was the _real_ Erik. The last time he had heard that voice had been when it was spluttering through blood, and he had to look away again.

"I thought you were dead." He stated with frigidity, trying to blink away the sight of Erik's mangled body, his half-vacant eyes. He remembered his hands shaking when he had roughly stitched the wound in Erik's stomach, fear in his limbs as he watched the horse carry a limp body into the darkness towards Constantinople.

"I would have been, if it wasn't for you."

A hush fell that was hard to break. Nadir stared openly at the half-concealed face, at the faded porcelain which covered it. In the court in Persia, he had always masked his entire face with red silks, the crimson masked murderer for the Shah. There seemed to be something less…otherworldly about him now. Something less bloodthirsty.

"You have changed." He noted, though it held no emotion. Erik's eyes burned.

"As have you. True royalty serving imitations of royalty." Erik shifted the faintest of nods over to the gossiping rich. Nadir smiled in a sad sort of humour.

"That feels like a lifetime ago now."

Erik hummed in agreement, and it was if they were both caught in the same daydream of memory. The conversations they had around the palace, the debates on politics, on music and art. The rare ring of laughter. All with a red mask, all with only knowing his amber eyes. Years and years, only knowing that voice and amber eyes. Until they fled. Until Erik was passing into death, when he saw the truth behind the mask. In a daze, Erik had snarled, writhed away, the ugly deformity piercing a strange silhouette in the darkness. Nadir had said nothing but a trembling prayer before Erik passed out of consciousness.

"Why now?" Nadir could not help but ask, feeling the sting of betrayal in his tone. So many years, so many years not knowing. And now…

"I have one last favour to ask, if you'll allow it." Erik was avoiding his stare again, tracing the bar nonchalantly.

Nadir's eyes narrowed with an incredulous curiosity.

….

Many hours later, with a bottle of sour spirits, holed up in a quiet backroom, Nadir felt his head spinning.

_Marriage, marriage, marriage…_

"Who is this girl? How in the world did you meet?" He was pouring another drink into Erik's glass, sloshing over the spindly hand. Erik, as per usual, looked slightly bemused.

"She is a leading soprano at the Opera Populaire." He answered somewhat trimly, haughtily, as if slightly annoyed at the continuous questions flooding at him. Nadir knew Erik was only tolerating it due to a grim sense of indebtedness, but being fantastically drunk, he was too astoundingly shocked to care.

"A singer! _Vây, khodâye man!_" Another thought drifted suddenly into Nadir's head.

_Has she seen…does she know?_

Erik seemed to sense the unspoken confusion, setting his glass down with a thoughtful, resigned look on his half-face.

"I do not pretend to know how she can look upon me, or why this is what she has chosen…" Erik's eyes suddenly turned hard and fierce, striking through Nadir's stupor, "…but I would beat death for her. If I had the Shah's neck in my noose, and she asked me to spare his life, I would cut the rope."

Silence slipped between them again. After a while, Erik recited the time and place once more as he stood, smoothing down his coat.

"Thank you for the drink." He murmured politely, and then, with just a flickering side-glance, he left.

…_._

Nadir made his way into a simple church on the edge of the city one warm summer afternoon. He intended to slip into the congregation unnoticed, but this was soon found to be impossible when he realised there was only two guests, seated in the front pew. On the left, a rather severe looking woman with neat black hair. On the right, a grinning girl with golden locks, holding a basket of rose petals in earnest. He decided to sit towards the back.

The priest seemed apathetic and old, squinting up at the tall, commanding frame of Erik. He was half-masked, a red flower in his lapel. In a way that only Nadir knew, Erik was nervous. Golden eyes remained fixated on the point in front of him, the heel of his foot tapping ever so slightly, hovering in its tremors just above the stone floor.

The girl entered in white, veiled and delicate in form. She must have been young, Nadir rationalised gravely, with sweeping chocolate curls pinned carefully, with the pink on her cheeks even noticeable through the fine lace.

It seemed a quiet affair. Vows were exchanged, though soft in tone, and from the way they were speaking, as if in a hushed whisper, it did seem as if it was for only the couple's ears. The priest swore them into the sanctity of marriage before a spiteful God. The veil lifted, and Nadir realised the girl was beautiful, with sapphire eyes and a bright, lovely face. She was bursting with happiness.

…..

Nadir did not meet the bride until later into the evening. He did not really know why he thought it best, but some part of him was aware that it was best to confer with no other people present. Besides, he did not know how much the two other guests knew.

Lights were dancing dimly in the fading sunlight from inside the little townhouse as he wondered up to the front door, checking the number again before knocking. A few seconds past before the door was flung open, revealing the girl. She was smiling radiantly, curls loose and still in her dress of white lace, azure eyes flashing. The smile fell as she took in the stranger.

"Who is it, my dear?" The honeyed call of Erik rang out the open door.

"I…I don't know." She called back, her eyes not leaving Nadir's. In less than a heartbeat, Erik was at the door, instinctively pulling the girl behind him. The tension in his body released immediately when he realised it was Nadir.

The faintest glimmer of a smile. "I saw you at the wedding. I thought you wouldn't come."

Nadir mirrored his smile. "We are ones that make good on our promises, are we not?"

"That is rather idealistic of you."

"This is true, but I am not the one married, my friend."

The girl seemed to watch on in confusion as Erik stepped aside to allow him in. Brows furrowed, she stuck out her hand to him.

"Hello sir, I do not believe we have met, and as it seems my husband is incapable of introducing me, I suppose I shall take matters into my own hands."

In a shocked moment, Nadir choked on his own dumbfounded laughter. Erik rolled his eyes dramatically as he stalked back through the corridor, flitting a hand over his shoulder in addressment.

"Nadir Khan, this is my Christine. Christine Daae. My dear, this is Nadir Khan, a friend from Persia."

The girl called Christine's eyes widened in sparkling curiosity and some sort of recognition, a grin across her pink lips.

"A friend? Nadir, from Persia? Oh, Mr Khan, please excuse me, come in, come in."

The dining room was scattered with used plates and the fragments of a frosted cake, all of which Christine was now scurrying to in order to clear Nadir a space, chirping excitedly all the while.

"Oh, it is really such a shame you missed the celebrations, Mr Khan, please do pardon the mess…"

"Really, do not worry…"

It was a funny vision, he had to admit, watching the fairy-like girl in a fairy-like dress pass stacks of plates into the hands of an indifferent Erik. Erik, who was muttering not to make a fuss in his surreal voice, in complete domesticity. Nadir's head spun.

"There is still cake if he wants it." Amber eyes flicked to Nadir, filled with a ripple of humour.

Was the masked murderer of the Shah truly…joking with him? Nadir couldn't help the belly laugh that uproariously followed. Christine blinked for a moment, giggling in uncertainty. Nadir touched her elbow in reassurance.

"Apologies, lovely Christine. I have just never seen my friend in this way."

Her sapphire eyes brightened in both interest and joy at the statement, though she hid the glint as she folded down the silk of her dress.

"Would you care for some tea, then? I am afraid we only have black…" She gnawed on her bottom lip. Nadir only smiled, taking the seat at the oak table.

"That sounds perfect." He crooned, sincerely, taking her palm in his and peering up at her. Christine smiled, a hint of a blush blooming on her cheeks before she dashed to the kitchen. Erik was unsmiling through his mask as he eased into the chair beside Nadir.

"She is simply divine." Nadir sung as he watched her curls disappear around the doorway. Erik hummed lowly.

"I know that look." He warned, though with mirth in his eyes. Nadir waved his hand in dismissal.

"Oh, please. I know better than to pursue any wife of yours." He turned to Erik properly then. "So, tell me what you told your guests. How much do they know?"

Erik smirked, though in sad irony. "They believe I'm war-wounded."

Nadir seemed to weigh up the answer and shrugged. "That's not entirely untrue." He flashed a glance to Erik's stomach. Erik's tweaked lips suddenly held an ounce of amusement.

"I wouldn't use so noble of a term."

Christine appeared with a silver tray of teacups and a teapot, setting it all out in front of them. Nadir watched her pour the tea with an air of performance, as if relishing the role of being the lady of her own house. After he wrapped his fingers around the porcelain, the question slipped.

"How did you meet?"

A silence filled the room for a half-moment. Christine shared in a secret smile and then shook her curls nonchalantly.

"It's a frightfully dull story. Now, Mr Khan, may I be so bold as to challenge you to a game of nard?"

Nadir's eyebrows shot up even as he heard Erik's breathy laugh.

…..

The girl slid the checker again, and then again. A man with a masked face was in a chair across the room, reading, although he was watching, always watching. The man with the sharp face let out a curse in an ancient language that grew in volume as the girl's victory was completed.

"My God, you are ruthlessly trained! I expect nothing less from your tutorage monsieur, but truly…"

Christine was beaming, proud and exuberant and trying to contain every fibre to stay put even as they wanted to jump up and yell. "I have never won before."

Nadir scoffed, nodding his head towards Erik. "That is because you have only played against _him_. I knew people who lost whole estates on games with that one."

"Estates which were not worth the paper of their title deeds." Quipped Erik nonchalantly as he leafed through his book, and then, flicking a proud half-smirk to Christine. "I did say you were improving, my dear."

Some time later, when the moon was high in the sky, Nadir left the small townhouse with spoken promises and a whole bottle of sweet wine Christine had pressed earnestly into his arms. Even in the darkness he could see the odd couple in the doorway. A waving, laughing girl with the sky in her eyes and the half-smiling man with quiet joy in his. He paused for a moment, turning back and waving, shouting in his bold voice.

"Be omide didâr! Goodnight, and good luck my friends!"

Blessings were needed, Nadir thought as he wandered down the street. It was their wedding night, after all.


End file.
